If It Weren't For Bad Luck, I'd Have No Luck At All
by Surplus Imagination
Summary: What could mundanely go wrong, when living a life outside? A humorous look at some of the perils found on the road.
1. The New Normal

_Disclaimer : The Walking Dead, Daryl, Carol, Rick and the other characters are the property of Robert Kirkman, Glenn Mazzera and AMC. Sadly, I do not own these characters. This writing is for pleasure only. No profit is intended._

_AN: This little idea pounced on me while writing my silly Supernatural story, Piggyback. It seemed such a natural fit here on the Walking Dead. Also, I needed a little comic relief as Praxid's amazing story, Down in the Willow Garden, is coming to a close. I'm really hoping her Carol will live. If you haven't read any of Praxid's work, I highly recommend it. Start with Little Janie Reed. Thanks to Praxid, I'm writing again :)_

_The New Normal_

Most days, things were pretty routine.

The campsite was much the same as all of the campsites since leaving the farm. The group was getting fairly efficient at living outside. If the weather was decent, they would all sleep around the fire pit, under the open sky.

Daryl would always take last watch, so he could go hunting at first light. It had become the general practice for Daryl to take someone with him; both to pass on his skills, and to provide a safety measure. Today's tagalong was Glen. Everyone pitied the tagalong. Daryl liked to hunt alone and didn't see the point in hiding it. Just as first light was breaking in the distance, Daryl would start tormenting the designated trainee awake.

Carol was always the first one up, starting whatever breakfast she could find on hand. People always thought she did this to be helpful, but that wasn't the real reason. Carol was first up because she reveled in the dawn. It was the only time of day she could feel completely comfortable and hopeful. She liked waking up and knowing Daryl was always there keeping the group safe. She also enjoyed the morning show. She noticed how Daryl had distinctive 'torments' for each person he took hunting. For Glen, he would hook one toe under the sleeping man, and deftly roll him away from Maggie's warm form. Eyes tightly shut; Glen would try to roll back. Daryl would block the way. Back and forth, further and further, they'd go at it until either Glen got up, or Maggie would wake and give them both a piece of her mind in harsh whispers.

As for breakfast, the food choices left a lot to be desired. Carol was currently working through a sack of sweet feed Hershel had uncovered at a previous farm. Although sweet feed, an oat, wheat and corn mixture laced with molasses, was blended for horses, when roughly ground in an old coffee mill and cooked in water, it became a filling, hot cereal. It tasted terrible and was hard on the digestive tract, but it was better than nothing. They did have two gallon jugs of raw honey to put on top, courtesy of the same farm. Carol settled herself on the ground and began grinding the grains by the cupful. Perhaps she might try to make the rough flour into biscuits tonight. Carol wondered if she could remember how to make a box oven to bake the biscuits in. Biscuits and honey would be a nice treat, she decided.

Carol's morning noises usually got Hershel moving. He would stoke the fire back from carefully banked ashes, fill the breakfast cereal pot with water and then relieve Daryl from watch. Today, he also started a batch of yaupon holly tea. Hershel was fond of his morning caffeine. He really needed it to get his joints working properly. All this camping was hard on his old bones. He grumbled about it 'round the fire one morning and Daryl showed up later dragging half bush of yaupon holly. It grew wild in this area. The tea was rather tasty, too.

The rest of the group would rise soon after. Each had their respective chores. Carl and Beth gathered firewood and foraged for berries. Maggie broke down the camp, folding and putting bedding away. Lori would do whatever she felt well enough to complete, but it was always something. The pregnancy had been difficult, especially with the inconsistent diet they all shared.

Rick and T-Dog usually slept in for a while, since each had done a four hour watch the night before. Carol often wondered when Daryl managed to get his extra bit sleep. As far as she could tell, Daryl managed to exist on a whisper of rest. He always seemed to be doing something useful. Carol often thought of him as their guardian angel, wings and all.

This was the new normal. Things were usually routine, until they weren't.

"Morning."

Rick was up, sporting two big, swollen bee stings on the side of his neck and two heavily bandaged hands. Rick had been the first one to attempt to harvest honey from that farm's two wooden hives. The attempt had not gone well, resulting in a swarm of angry honey bees and everyone running. Rick unluckily took the brunt of the retaliation. Maggie saved the day wielding a lit smudge pot like the sword of an avenging angel. The smoke calmed and subdued the bees, saving Rick from even more stings. Beth stepped in when the bees settled and directed T-Dog on how to pry loose and lift the heavy comb frames. They had all feasted on honey comb last night, liberally coating the roasted rabbit meat for the evening meal. For once, dinner had been delicious. Even Lori managed to enjoy that meal.

"Morning, Rick. How's your hands?" Carol asked, dipping out a mug of tea for him and adding a dollop of honey with a smile.

"Sore," Rick returned the smile with a slight grimace. "I'm not going to get much done today."

"Maybe that's for the best. We could all use a day to stay put." Carol patted his arm and filled a second mug for Hershel. As she made her way over to the watching man, Rick took his warm mug and settled next to the fire. Nearby, T-Dog stirred.

"What's for breakfast?" he asked with a tremendous yawn.

Rick only whinnied in return. T-Dog groaned and pulled the blanket back over his face. "Man, I hate horse mush," he said through the cloth.

"Mash," Hershel corrected over his shoulder, sipping his tea. "It's a hot mash. Horses love it."

"Well, I hate it," came the muffled reply.

"It's food," Rick agreed, although he privately detested it, too. "At least we have honey." T-Dog nodded enthusiastically from under the blanket.

All conversation broke off as the bushes began to rattle. With cold efficiency, the camp reacted.

Everyone moved in, backs to the fire, weapons raised. The strongest defenders created an outer circle, the weaker ones inside. Lori yanked back an overly enthusiastic Carl from the outer line.

"It's us! It's us!" They could all hear Glen before they could see him. "I need help!"

Rick and Hershel kept their weapons raised as T-Dog started forward. About that time, the bushes parted revealing a frazzled Glen supporting a heavily limping Daryl. Daryl was dragging a huge burlap sack on the ground behind him. Both men were dirty and sweaty, even in the cool air of the morning. T-Dog rushed forward to take the sack. Unable to resist peeking in, he immediately exclaimed, "Potatoes!" T-Dog ignored the irritated looks of both men.

"What?" T-Dog asked, looking at the others. "He's obviously not dead and I'm hungry. You know how long it's been since we've had potatoes?"

"Good Lord, Daryl. What happened?" Carol was the next to move as the circle broke apart. "Sit down and let us take a look." She dropped to her knees and gave a gasp. "Are those what I think they are?"

"Can't sit," Daryl growled, pulling away from Glen to lean against the truck. "Grace here made sure of that. Remind me later, to beat your ass," he threatened. Glen wisely backed away.

"What happened?" asked Rick, taking a closer, puzzled look. "Hershel? I think we need you here."

Lori, once again, pulled a curious Carl back from the fray. She hissed at him to stay put and shuffled off to find Hershel's vet bag. Carl gave her retreating figure one sneaky glance and scooted forward on his knees until he could get a clear look.

Daryl's leg was covered in what looked like toothpicks. Carl had a great view. From his hip to halfway down the back of his leg, thick clusters jutted through the canvas. Awed, Carl gave an appreciative whistle and he scooted around the other side. "Hey, Daryl. They're in your butt, too!" He reached out to touch one. "Cool." Abruptly he was yanked back, this time by Glen.

Hershel gave the leaning man a long look. "Son, that is one sorry sight. Looks like you've been quilled."

Behind him, Beth gave a snorting giggle. She had both hands across her mouth, trying to hold the laughter in. Daryl gave her a filthy look.

"That's not funny, young lady!" Hershel admonished. "Getting stung by a porcupine is very painful."

"Especially in the butt!" Carl crowed, with his own giggle. Around the circle, the adults tried to hide their amusement behind fake coughs and raised fingers.

"I'm so glad to provide this day's entertainment," Daryl snarled. "Can someone just give me a pair of pliers, so I can pull the damned things out!"

"Not so fast. The quills can be fragile. If you break them off, they'll just work their way deeper and deeper into the skin." Hershel put a calming hand on Daryl's shoulder. "You best let me do the pulling."

"My day just gets better and better," Daryl groaned, laying his head down on crossed arms. He wouldn't admit it to the group, but he felt terrible. Not only did the quills burn like wildfire, but his entire body ached like he was coming down with the flu. He'd tell Hershel about it when he got a moment of privacy. It was probably nothing.

"How'd you end up like this? Last time I checked, porcupines didn't throw their quills," Rick asked with an overly solemn look. "What did you do, sit on one?" All around him, snickers abounded. Rick was having to strain to keep a straight face.

"It's my fault," Glen admitted, drawing attention. The young Asian shuffled feet in the dust. "I tripped and knocked Daryl right into it."

"Why don'tcha tell them the whole story," Daryl glared. "Tell 'em how you riled him up first poking him with a stick. You and that stick were having a field day!"

"I don't have to tell them. You just did," Glen protested. "How was I supposed to know it would get all aggressive like that. I was trying to chase it away! You're the one that was complaining it was eating all the potatoes!"

"You don't poke wild animals with a stick unless you want them to bite you, or claw you, or sting you. Hey Carl!" Daryl spat. "Go fetch me a stick. I want to show Glen how it feels. Let's see how he reacts." Daryl lurched toward Glen a bit. "I owe you a good thrashing."

"Sure thing!" Carl leapt up and ran for the woodpile, only be halted by his father's glare.

"Let's all calm down," Rick reasoned. "There will be no stick poking today." He gave a level gaze to the injured man. "Or beatings." Daryl snorted and looked away. Rick turned to Glen.

"Ok, Glen. You provoked the porcupine. My understanding is that they don't generally attack."

"Well, it didn't," Glen said. "It just got all mad. It was spitting and pacing around and swinging its tail back and forth. Daryl just ignored it while cutting the asparagus."

"Asparagus? Really?" Lori chimed in.

"Yeah," Daryl said tiredly, slumping down on the hood. "They had a couple of trenches of asparagus, the potato patch and a whole buncha herbs. I got garlic, thyme, basil, rosemary and cilantro. I even got the roots, so we can try so keep some in pots. I am so sick of sweet feed mash." Murmurs of agreement echoed all around.

"Back to the point," Rick redirected. "How did Daryl end up pin cushioned?"

Glen gave Daryl a distressed look and moved away another couple of steps. "I was having a hard time ignoring the rabid porcupine."

"It weren't rabid!" Daryl interjected, half-hearted swatting Carl's curious fingers away. Could nobody control that boy?

"Fine! Agitated porcupine. I got kinda jumpy pulling up potatoes and keeping one eye on that monster. At some point, I felt something grab my leg and I flinched."

"It was one of the potato vines, you moron. Jumped damn near a foot into the air and landed right on me," Daryl sighed. "Knocked me directly into the porcupine's tail. Sucker was probably thirty pounds, or more."

"Yeah, like dominos." Glen agreed. Wrinkling his forehead with guilt, he gave Daryl a wincing glance. "Sorry?"

"Sorry?" Daryl exclaimed. "That all you got?"

"So, you did sit on it." Rick interrupted, his repressed smile breaking through. Snickers went all around.

"Not directly," Hershel commented. "It appears that the more, ah, tender parts of your anatomy are clear."

"Is he talking about his junk?" Carl whispered dramatically to Beth, who giggled even louder. Even Maggie lost it then and had to turn around to gain her composure.

"Well, that's about the best damn news I've heard so far," Daryl barked. "If ya'll are done makin' fun of me, I'd like to get this lil' problem taken care of. I ain't got all day!"

"That's enough, everyone." Carol got to her feet and started shooing people away as Daryl slumped lower on the hood. "Nothing to see here."

"Ok, people. I'm sure everyone has something they have to do," Rick agreed. "Let's give Hershel some room to work."

"Hell, no. This is better than HBO." T-Dog grinned, but moved slightly away at Rick's hard stare.

Everyone started to disburse, going back to their normal routine. This all stopped when Hershel said.

"Ok, son. Let's get those pants off of you. Who has the scissors?"

tbc...

_AN: Please let me know how you liked it As for the story, I wonder Daryl is a boxers, or briefs kind of guy? I can't remember seeing him in his underwear on the show. Anyone know?_

_Thanks for reading (and reviewing)!_

_Surplus_


	2. If I see something I haven't seen befor

_Disclaimer: See chapter 1._

Chapter 2

If I see something I haven't seen before, I'll hit it with a stick!

"_Ok, son. Let's get those pants off of you. Who has the scissors?"_

Everyone froze.

Well, everyone but Daryl. Despite feeling like a thousand corkscrews were boring down in his flesh with every movement, Daryl straighten bolt-upright, pushed away from the truck and took his stand.

"That's not gonna happen," he said in a steely, quiet voice. "Just pull 'em out like they are." Beside him, Carol gave an exasperated sigh.

"That's not the best idea. Let me explain this to you. Each one of those quills has multiple barbed ends," Hershel stated, reasonably.

"Like a fishhook?" Carl suggested, brightly.

"Yes. Like a fishhook, but with more barbs," Hershel agreed. "Those barbs are designed to keep the quill from falling out easily."

"So the porcupine can get away?" Carl added, reaching out and testing the sharpness of the end of the quills closest to him. He flinched when the quill drew a bright bead of blood on the end of his finger.

"Good boy," Hershel approved, as Rick drug his son a couple of feet back by one arm. "As I was saying, those barbs are going to hook into everything they can. And when we pull them out, they are going to pull a fair amount of flesh as well."

"Tell me something I don't already know," Daryl snapped. "Let's get this done! I can handle it."

"No one doubts your ability to withstand pain," Hershel soothed, hands raised placatingly in front of him. "If I don't pull each quill straight out, each barb will create a bigger hole than necessary. The cloth of your pants obscures the angle of penetration. I need to be able to see to do this right."

Hershel paused to accept his bag from Lori, nodding his thanks. Daryl took the moment to shakily run his hand through his hair. Carol stood beside him debating on whether to say something, or not. Pretending to be busy, the rest of the group lingered nearby.

"You are going to have to trust me." Hershel opened his bag and started removing objects. "I'm going to need some boiled water to clean the wounds. Baking soda and vinegar would be helpful." Hershel took a folded cloth from his bag and spread it out on the hood. On the cloth, he started placing the items he needed; forceps, a sturdy pair of plier, two scalpels, a suture kit, clamps and a roll of bandages. Daryl watched each item being placed on this cloth with increasing dread.

"I'm going to need him to remain standing for as long as possible. It will make it easier for me to get a good pull." Hershel dug around in his bag and produced a half-full bottle of betadine. "Daryl's going to need to lie down at some point. His bedding is going to need something to catch the blood, because this will definitely get bloody."

"On it." Lori called out. She grabbed Beth's hand and pulled her away.

"Carol?"

"Here, Hershel." Carol gave Daryl's arm a quick, uninvited rub and stepped up to the veterinarian.

"Before I get started, Daryl's going to need to drink something sweet. Can you get him a mug of that excellent tea? Fill the mug about a quarter full of that honey first." Carol hurried off.

Daryl shifted uneasily. "I don't think I can drink anything." He was trying hard not to puke as it was.

"I need you to try." Hershel met Daryl's nervous eyes steadily. He took in the pale features. "Sugar is good to ward off shock."

With that Daryl exploded. "Shock? You don't know what the hell you're talking about, Doctor Dolittle. You don't know what I've been through before. Hell, I've had worse and made out just fine!"

"I seriously doubt that," Hershel said. "This is not up for discussion."

"You doubt that?" Daryl yelled. "You don't know me. You don't-" Daryl never got to finish, because Carol stormed over and got right in Daryl's face.

"Stop it! You stop it right now. This is not a competition on how much of a tough guy you can be." Carol slammed the mug down on the hood and started gesturing wildly. "You will do every single thing Hershel tells you without another argument." Carol punctuated every other word stabbing a finger in the center of Daryl's chest.

Daryl looked uncertain. "I don't know why I have to-" Again, he didn't get to finish.

"Because I said so," Carol growled. She picked the mug and shoved it in Daryl's hand. "Drink."

T-Dog applauded. "Just drink the tea, you pig-headed redneck!"

Daryl gave him the finger, but took a drink. It was warm and soothing and very, very sweet. It was actually good. The tang of the yaupon holly was infused with something floral. He rolled it on his tongue, considering.

"I added some lavender. I found a patch growing just over there." Carol gave him the evil eye. "Drink it all."

"Yes ma'am," he said respectfully, draining his cup. He handed the mug back. "It's good. Can I have some more?" Actually, the tea was settling his stomach and making him feel better. He looked over at T-Dog. "You don't get any, jackass." Across the camp, Rick gave a laugh.

When Daryl had drained the second mug, Hershel took it and gently guided him to lean against the hood again. "I'm going to need you to hold still regardless of how much it hurts"

Daryl spat to one side. "Can I at least swear?" he joked.

"As much as you want. I'm planning on sending the children away."

Maggie gave a wave and grabbed Beth and a protesting Carl. "Good luck, Daryl."

"Glen, seeing as you are responsible for this, I'm going to need you here on his right side." Glen nodded and took his place. "Keep him still. Keep his upright, if you can. And try not to pass out." Glen gave Daryl a nervous look, but nodded.

"Yeah, Glen. Try not to pass out," Daryl sneered. Glen gulped and nodded, oblivious to the sarcasm. Hershel stepped aside to wash his hands.

"He won't last ten seconds," T-Dog laughed, pulling up a folding chair.

"Naw," Rick disagreed. "He'll make it to the end...then pass out." He dropped the firewood he was attempting to stack with bandaged hand and walked over. "Daryl will drop first."

"Hey!" Daryl protested.

"Wanna bet?" T-Dog rubbed the side of his nose. "We could start a betting pool. Person with the closest guess wins."

Rick pulled up a chair and flopped into it. "You're on." Rummaging in his pocket, he pulled out a small notebook and pencil stub. "Carl? I need the hat and my secret stash."

Carl came running out of the bushes, full pelt. He must not have gone far. Like sliding into second base, Carl dropped to his knees skidding the last two feet. In seconds he was back to his father. Handing the hat over, he took the notebook and pencil in return.

Rick took the wide-brimmed Sheriff's hat and placed it on the ground upside down. He peered inside his small diddybag Carl had fetched and pulled out his ante.

"One box of Tic-Tacs on Daryl passing out within the first five minutes." Rick rattled the box of mints at T-Dog and tossed them into the hat with a flourish. Carl wrote down the bet.

T-Dog scoffed and produced a still wrapped mini bar of Irish Spring from the side pocket of his cargo pants. "One pristine bar of soap on Glen eating dirt within ten seconds, on the first quill pull."

"That's a stupid bet," Glen argued. "Even I can last ten seconds."

"Not when quills look like needles," T-Dog grinned. "Big bloody needles."

Glen looked at the clusters of quills aghast. "I hate needles," he swallowed hard. T-Dog just laughed harder. Carl wrote down the bet.

"I want a piece of the action." Maggie called from the bushes. "Five Hershey kisses on Glen outlasting Daryl AND not tossing his cookies."

"Now, that's another stupid bet," Glen muttered, looking around for a bucket. He felt sick already. Carl grinned and wrote the bet down.

Beth came tearing out of the bushes, tossed in Maggie's five chocolate kisses and added a pack of gum. "My bet is on Daryl. He'll make it all the way to the end standing,"

"Damn straight," Daryl hollered.

"I wasn't finished. He'll make it to the end, but he's going to be the one to throw up."

"On Glen," Carl added with a grin while he wrote down the bet.

Beth nodded her agreement. She folded her legs and dropped to the ground looking over Carl's shoulder. "You're going to bet that?" she asked incredulously. "Where'd you get it?"

Lori popped up as only a mother can. "What did he bet?"

"A Twinkie," she said stunned.

"Still in the wrapper," Carl grinned. "I'm betting that Daryl has at least one thousand porcupine quills stuck in him. I've been estimating."

That bet sobered everyone up.

Daryl cleared his throat. "I'll take that bet, little man. I'll bet a full-sized Snicker bar that there's less than a thousand."

Carl saluted him and wrote down the bet.

Hershel picked up the scissors and announced, "Betting is now closed. Let's get this show on the road." He walked over and grabbed Daryl by the waist of his pant. Pulling the fabric away, he lined up the scissors to cut.

"Wait a minute," Daryl yelled, pulling away slightly. "I thought you were going to cut around the quills a little. What the hell are you doing?" Glen reached over to grip Daryl's arm.

"You misunderstood me, son," Hershel explained. "The pants have to go."

"Naw-uh," Daryl spat. "I'm not gonna let you cut 'em all off. I ain't gonna stand here flapping in the breeze!" Glen couldn't help but snicker.

"Just the pants. I'm planning on trying to leave your underwear on," Hershel reasoned.

"That's assuming I'm wearing underwear!" Daryl ripped his arm out of Glen's hands, who lost his balance a little. "I refuse to stand here nekkid, while you pull porcupine quills outta my ass!"

"Why aren't you wearing any?" Carol asked, puzzled. She knew she had washed boxers for Daryl in the past. They were always sorry things, all worn out and full of holes. She always figured he was the type to wear things until they fell off his body.

"Got none," Daryl exclaimed. "It's not like I got a wardrobe full. Not much fits on that bike."

"That's unfortunate. Maybe we can rig something up," Hershel the group.

A flurry of activity hit the camp as everyone dug into their clothing stash. Carl gathered the offerings with a grin. He presented them to Daryl one by one, laying them out on the hood. He was having way too much fun with Daryl's predicament.

"You've got a pair of blue boxers, a..ewwww.. pair of stained skivies, a pair of black boxer briefs, and Superman Underroos. Those used to me mine," Carl confided with a cupped whisper. "And my very favorite, a weird looking pair of ladies' panties. Hope they're not my mom's." Carl held up a racy red-lace throng to Daryl's horror. "Looks like your size." Laughter erupted.

Carol snatched the thong out of Carl's hands and swept the rest of the offerings off the hood. "I suggest the blue boxers, unless you have a different preference." Daryl noticed that Carol stuffed the thong into her own pocket. Blushing, he shook his head no.

Herschel wasted no more time cutting into the pants. He cut straight down from hip to heel. He then repeated the cut on the other leg. Daryl clutched his pants in front awkwardly. The quills kept the back in place. Carol moved closer to help him with his pants, while Herschel attempted further cuts around the length of the quills.

"Watch yourself, woman," Daryl barked. "Ain't in the mood to flash everyone."

"Like you've got something that everyone here hasn't already seen," Carol scoffed. "As my mother used to say, 'If I see something I haven't seen before, I'll hit it with a stick'."

"What the hell are you talking about? I keep my pants on," Daryl complained.

Lori laughed. "My mother used to say the same thing,"

Daryl winced as the weight of the fabric sagged against the quills. He obligingly widened his stance when Herschel tapped the inside of one thigh, needing more room. Daryl tried not to think about just where Herschel was using those scissors.

"Oh please." Carol rolled her eyes and she gathered the dropping fabric. "Like you are discreet when you pee."

"I don't know you're yappin' about," Daryl gripped. "I can't help if nature calls." Daryl flinched when the scissors nicked a sensitive area. "Son-of-a-bitch! I might need those later!" Hershel muttered an apology and continued trimming.

"You must have that smallest bladder of any of us. Nature calls practically 24/7." Carol continued, keeping one eye on Hershel's progress.

"Ain't a crime to stay hydrated. I'm discreet," Daryl trailed off, looking down.

"Turning a quarter turn away is not discreet," she distracted, pulling his gaze back up. "You whip it out all the time."

"You're not supposed to be looking!" Daryl was mortified. "It ain't polite to stare."

"I can't help staring when you wave it around everywhere." Carol mimicked waving a fire hose with one hand. Behind them both, T-Dog guffawed.

"I do not!" Daryl hissed.

Carol simply raised one hand to stop the protest. Twisting her head, she asked, "Who here hasn't seen Daryl's penis when he's peeing?"

The camp was utterly silent. Daryl blushed bright red.

"See, I'm right. Not a person here hasn't seen you 'nekkid', as you call it. No worries here." Carol said smugly, noticing that Herschel was almost done.

"One more clip and everything is gonna drop," he said. 'Brace yourself. I don't know if it will take any of the quills with it." But Daryl didn't hear. He was too involved in his bickering with Carol.

Indignant, Daryl drew himself up higher, unconsciously releasing his grip on his pants. "I have no idea what you are talking about. I do not... wave... it around!"

At that moment, Herschel made the last snip and the bulk of the pants pooled around Daryl's ankles. Only a long strip of cloth still attached to Daryl's body by the quills remained. Daryl was eyeing Carol angrily, completely unaware that he was standing nearly buck-naked from the waist down in front of a stunned audience. The entire camp was looking on.

Carol ripped her gaze from Daryl's piercing one to glance quickly down and quip, "I always knew you were a natural blonde."

**tbc... **

_AN: I'm looking forward to tonight's premier. I think it's going to be good! As for the story, I have to wonder if anyone else as heard that old 'stick' saying? My mother used to pull that out on a regular basis. I'd love to hear your own sayings.  
_

_I hope drop me a line if you are enjoying the story. I loved the opinions on Daryl's underwear. Thanks! Surplus_


	3. Man vs Quills

_**Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1_

_AN: Obviously, my happy little world is nothing like the grim Season 3 opener! Maybe Rick should read my story and lighten up a bit. Or maybe not, I found the premier to be excellent! _

_My thanks to Carylshipper4life for Carl's opening question. I hope you enjoy - Surplus Imagination_

…_Carol ripped her gaze from Daryl's piercing one to glance quickly down and quip, "I always knew you were a natural blonde."_

Man vs Quills

"I don't get it. What's she mean by 'natural blonde'?" Carl asked his dad, puzzled. Rick cracked a smile and whispered in Carl's ear. "Oh," was all Carl said. He craned his neck to look at Daryl, then he turned and looked at Beth inquiringly. Beth blushed brightly and looked away. Carl just sat looking at her with a goofy grin on face, until Rick physically turned his son's head back around.

"You are one sneaky bitch," Daryl accused, pointing at Carol. His words were insulting, but his tone was admiring. He made no move to cover himself, apparently forgotten his exposure, or had stopped caring.

"Got your pants off ya, didn't I?" Carol smirked. "Stubborn bastard."

"Lookit you, all potty mouthed! I'll have you know my parents were married...for a while." Daryl gave the tiniest of smiles, as he calmed down. "And I bet those panties are yours." He reached over and tugged a little on the red, lace thong peeking out of Carol's pocket. It was Carol's turn to bright red and look away.

"Damn, I wish I had some popcorn," drawled T-Dog to Rick. "This is just like being at the movies." Rick coughed harshly into his hand and got up from his camp chair. He make his way to the latrine area of the bushes.

"If you two can control yourselves, I'd like to begin," Hershel admonished, pouring Betadine over the pliers in his hand. "Carl, bring me a bowl. I want you to catch the quills." It hadn't escaped Hershel's notice that Carl was ogling his youngest. Carl grabbed an empty basin and sat on his knees next to Hershel. He held it out eagerly Gross fascination outweighing budding sexual attraction at his age.

Glen fidgeted beside Daryl. "Can we get some shorts on him? I'm a little uncomfortable here." He flinched when Daryl swiveled and gave him a hard stare.

"You got a problem with nudity, Chinaman? Ain't like I'm having the time of my life here!"

Daryl moved to step forward to intimidate the younger man, but Hershel had a firm grip on the cloth attached the quills. Flashes of pain flitted across Daryl's face as he reached the end of his tether. Carol grabbed his arm and tugged him back into place.

Glen wheeled back a step in alarm. "Nudity? No problems here. Well, not when its mine, that is," Glen faltered. "Or Maggie's," he gave a nervous laugh that dropped off the instant he took in Hershel's angry expression. "Not that I've seen her naked...of course." Deflecting attention, Glen squared his shoulders as stepped back toward Daryl. "Your nudity I have a problem with! I could have gone my whole life without seeing...that," he ended lamely by pointing slightly down, looking everywhere but where he was pointing.

"I could stand to see some more," Maggie grinned impishly.

Daryl snorted in amusement. "Deal with it. It's your damn fault I'm freewheeling it here," he sneered, crowding Glen again. "Carl's where's that stick?" This time, Hershel kept Carl out of it.

Rolling her eyes in an exaggerated way, Carol took off her sweater, rolled it slightly and tied it around Daryl's waist, sleeves dangling in front. It provided modest coverage, if one didn't look too closely. She tighten the knot on the sleeves so the weave didn't touch the upper quills. Glen breathed a massive sigh of relief. Daryl looked startled.

"Carol, are you sure about this," Daryl asked, shyly. "It's probably going to just get bloody. I don't want to ruin it"

"Don't worry about it. I can always wash it," Carol said, touched by his concern. Mentally, she added that she was getting really good at getting out blood stains.

"Just let me get that cluster on his hind quarter. Then we can try to wrestle those boxers on him and try to save Carol's sweater," Hershel interrupted.

Hershel leaned forward and carefully poured some of the Betadine across the base of quills. Rusty orange-red antiseptic streamed down the back of Daryl's leg. It looked a lot like fresh walker blood. Daryl hissed and leaned both hands on the hood, hanging his head. Glen turned completely green, turning slightly away.

"Glen! Don't you do anything stupid. I have my eye on that soap," Maggie ordered.

Glenn nodded vigorously and drew a cleansing breath. He steeled his features, stepped back and grasped Daryl's arm with a determined look.

"Here we go." Without hesitating, Hershel braced his left hand on Daryl's hip, clamped the pliers on the highest quill near its base and pulled straight back. It took some strength, but the quill came right out. Blood welled up and seeped out of the hole. Daryl didn't make a sound. Carol could feel the tension rippling down his arm.

Hershel held up the bloody tipped quill and inspected it. "Definitely a North American porcupine. This was in pretty deep." He showed the quill to Carl before dropping it into the bowl, with a ping. "See the tiny barbs I was talking about?" Carl nodded. Hershel reached over and yanked a second quill and a third and a fourth. Daryl grunted and hunched his shoulders. Glen made an urping sound, but held firm.

"Well, I'm out," T-Dog said, disgustedly. "Never would have thought Glen would last at all."

"That's my guy," Maggie said proudly. She had wandered over to pet Beth's hair. She noticed Beth had the betting book from Carl. Squinting over Beth's shoulders, she noticed something new. "When did Carol lay a bet? I didn't hear her." Beth just shrugged. "Kinda unusual, isn't it?"

Carl piped up from the ground. "She wrote it herself, right before Mr. Hershel called all bets closed."

"What'd she bet?" T-Dog asked, peering into the hat. All he could see was a cloth covered bundle.

"Don't read it out loud," Carol said. "You'll mess it up. I want to see if I'm right." Carefully placing a hand on Daryl's tense shoulder, she asked,"You doing okay? Want some water?" Daryl gave a tight shake of his head. Tiny droplets of sweat fell off at that motion. "I put half a pack of cigarettes in the pot," she said, more to Daryl than the others.

"You don't smoke," Daryl gritted, biting back a moan. He sure could use a cigarette right about now. It had been months since his last smoke.

"No, but a bunch of you do. Found them a while back and thought they might make good barter," Carol smiled. She glanced over her shoulder at Carl's filling bowl. "How's he doing?"

Hershel sighed and stopped to wipe sweat from his forehead. "Almost done with the buttocks. It might go a little easier if he could relax his muscles some."

Carol nodded, considering. She looked around the group for inspiration. Lori was busy peeling potatoes into a pot, on the far side of camp. Maggie was sitting and holding her sister, while calling out encouragement to Glen. T-Dog was watching Hershel intently, as if studying his movements. Carl was separating the bloody quills into little stacks of ten, all along the edge of bowl. Carol could see five stacks neatly arranged. He was working on a sixth.

Someone was missing. Carol's brow furled as she tried to fill in the blank. Beside her, Daryl made a quiet, whiny sound deep in his throat. Hershel exhaled sharply, "That one was really deep. I think that hole is going to need a stitch," he said, peering at the carnage so far. "This is hard work. How are you holding up, son?" Hershel asked. "Still think you've had worse?"

Daryl's knees buckled a little, but he caught himself. "Naw, I take it all back. This hurts like a sum bitch. Just get it over with."

T-Dog shifted in his chair a bit, before offering. "I could help you there, Hershel. I've been watching. I can do that. I'm pretty strong. Got another pair of pliers?"

"I don't know how Daryl will feel about that," Hershel mused. "It might hurt more, two at a time. Then again, it might not," he reasoned.

"Got a pair with a good handles in my saddlebag," Daryl gritted. "Don't care if it hurts more. Just get it done, so I can go kill Glen. I ain't forgot." Daryl's voice sort of tighten up with the strain. Glen blanched.

T-Dog got up to fetch the pliers. He was back quickly, sterilizing the tool with the Betadine. Pulling his chair forward, he found a place next to Hershel. "Never thought I'd be touching some skinny, white boy's backside," he laughed, trying for levity.

"What, you had your hands on some not-so-white backsides before, or just not skinny ones?" Daryl attempted to joke back thinly. Glen twittered nervously. swaying a little. Daryl blinked sweat from his eyelashes and stared at Glen considering.

"Ha! Like I'd tell you," T-Dog laughed, winking at Carol.

T-Dog braced one hand on the unscathed top of Daryl's cheek, clamped on a quill and smoothly pulled it out. Below his palm, he could feel Daryl's muscles tremble. "How's that feel, pulling it out?" he asked in a light tone.

"Better out than in," Daryl huffed. "Thanks, man," he said, sincerely.

Hershel watched T-Dog carefully and gave a nod. "You did that just right, Theodore." Hershel returned to his own task. Quietly, the two men plucked and chucked. The bowl filled twice as fast as before, with two men working.

The extra effort was clearly causing more pain. Daryl's arms shook with the effort to keep his body upright and still. Carol could hear him grind his teeth against the onslaught. She racked her brain for another distraction. Turns out, she didn't need one. Glen had it covered..

"Wonder what Merle would have made of all of this?" Glen mused, totally oblivious to everyone's shocked expressions. There was a very good reason no one ever mentioned Merle to Daryl. Carol tighten her hold on Daryl's arm and held her breath.

"You. T-Dog. Where T-Dog has his hands," Glen chuckled. The young man absentmindedly let go of Daryl, crossed his arms and leaned back on the truck. "Never mind the homosexual overtones of the entire conversation," he continued, clearly amused.

"You got a death wish?" T-Dog questioned sharply, pliers upraised. Carol could see him tense, waiting to intervene when Daryl inevitably exploded. Glen looked up at the comment, confused. Fear flitted across his face,when he realized what he had done.

All eyes turned on Daryl, waiting for his reaction. Carol was sure not a single person was breathing. The reaction they all witnessed, became conversation around the campfire for years.

Daryl started laughing.

Full-bodied, bust your gut, laughing. He roared until he ran out of breath, still propped up on that truck hood by his now quaking arms. He took a heaving breath and roared again. He laughed and laughed and laughed.

No one had ever heard Daryl Dixon laugh like that before. Unfettered, completely devoid of self-consciousness. His pained, sweaty face transformed by a look of joy. He laughed until tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes. Slowly, he stopped and looked thoughtful.

"Merle," Daryl gasped, wiping a wayward tear, "would shit kittens. Next, he would save me the trouble of beating you into the ground, Glen. Then he'd probably have a go at T-Dog for feeling me up. He'd finish by knocking me into next week, for letting it all happen."

Daryl started laughing again, dropping down to his forearms. "He'd call me Darylina and complain that I was a pansy-ass, before pouring a fifth of whiskey across all that raw skin." Daryl sighed and dropped the top of his head down onto his forearms, his body sagging.

"Shit, I miss my brother," he said, giving a last chuckle, relaxing.

"Damn waste of whiskey, if you ask me," T-Dog chimed in, smiling. "And I did not 'feel you up' asshole." He got back to work, removing quills down the back of Daryl's leg, in sync with Hershel's movements. The men were able to work faster, as the leg lost it's tenseness.

"Would he really kick your ass for getting stuck by quills?" Glen asked, curious. "This wasn't your fault."

Daryl turned his head on his arms to face Glen. "Kid, in what universe is this not my fault? Merle would have had the sense to beat ever' last mistake into my thick head." Wearily, Daryl settled his head flat against the hood a little clang. He was fading fast, sliding a little, down the metal surface. Glen struggled to keep him up.

Carol made a quick decision and climbed up onto the hood. The metal gave slightly under their combined weight. She scooted close to Daryl and patted her lap. "Here, hang on to me. I'm softer and won't let you fall."

"Ain't gonna fall." The reply was faint, eyelids at half-mast.

"I need just ten more minutes," Hershel gritted. "I don't care how you do it. We're almost done."

Carol grabbed Daryl's semi-limp arms and pulled them toward her. She motioned for Glen to help. Between the two of them, they got Daryl positioned, laying his head and shoulders on her lap, with his arms wrapped around her hips. Daryl sighed and closed his eyes. Carol tentatively ran her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, expecting him to flinch away, or tell her to stop. Surprisingly, he didn't. Under her stroking fingers, Daryl was very, very hot. Fever hot. Carol frowned.

Freed from propping Daryl up, Glen sat on the bumper and looked at the damage. Hershel and T-Dog were indeed almost done. Nearly of foot of skin was pocked with raw, mangled holes. Blood oozed freely from the punctures. T-Dog was plucking the last twenty, or so quills, while Hershel used a scalpel to dig for a broken-off nub.

"Dude, your leg looks like raw hamburger meat," Glen exclaimed, disgusted, but unable to look away. "This must be killing you."

"Naw," came the muffled reply. "I'm getting kinda numb. Like getting a tattoo."

Glen looked at the battlefield of man vs porcupine. He didn't care what Daryl said, he knew this was his fault. He'd find a way to make up for this.

"I'm so sorry, man. I should have left it alone," Glen sorrowfully proclaimed, patting Daryl's good leg. He was struck by how hot the appendage was. Another thing to feel guilty for.

"S'ok. Not your fault. Should have just shot the damned thing and had it for dinner," Daryl said, his knees trembling. Carol grabbed on and held tight.

"Why didn't you?" Glen was curious. He had never seen the hunter pass on anything edible.

"Twas a nursing mother. Couldn't kill 'er," Daryl trailed off.

"How could you tell?" Glen asked, watching Hershel. T-Dog was finished and sitting back in his chair. There was no answer. "Of course you could tell," Glen muttered. "You know _everything_ about being outside. I should have followed your lead." Glen closed his eyes and banged the back of his head against the car.

"Damn straight." Daryl's voice was shaky. Glen could hear little grunts of pain escape the stoic man's lips. Daryl must be wearing down if he allowed this weakness to show. Glen could hear Carol tell Daryl to hold still. To relax. Glen's guilt surged.

"Not much more," Hershel soothed. "I just need to dig out a couple of these embedded ends and we're done. No need to tell you, this is going to hurt."

Glen watched, horrified, as Hershel sliced open an already bleeding wound and dug deep inside with a pair of forceps. T-Dog moved in to hold down Daryl's twitching leg as he dug. The forceps removed small strands of something whitish. One 'strand' fell into the seeping blood and wiggled.

"Are those worms?" Glen cried. Visions of worms writhing in Daryl's ripped flesh overwhelmed him.

"Worms? No! Those are just pieces of the broken-" Hershel never finished his statement. Without warning, Glen bent over and vomited right down the front of Hershel's leg.

"Dammit, Glen." Maggie exclaimed. "Looks like I'm out, too." Maggie winced, as Glen puked again. This time, he got Hershel's shoe.

Hershel gave Glen a murderous look and went back to digging out the broken ones. A few moments later, he put down the forceps and picked up needle and thread. After having T-Dog pour the jug of boiled water across all the wounds to clean them, he closed the biggest holes with firm, sure stitches.

"I wish I had a syringe to debride those punctures. We are going to have to hope for the best." Hershel stood up, cracking his back. "You did good, son." He gave Daryl's back a pat. Frowning, he reached over and felt Daryl's forehead. "How long has he been fevered?" he asked Carol. She only shrugged.

"It's probably a result of the trauma, although sometimes quill punctures get infected from microbial bacteria. I'll make a salve with some of that raw honey and some sulfur powder. Let's see if we can cut any infection before it gets bad. He should take some Benadryl, if we have any."

"I'll ask Maggie," Glen said, miserably. He might as well let Maggie yell at him and be done with it. He stood up to go, but stopped and gripped his hair with both hands. Hershel was talking to Maggie while pointing back at Glen, shaking vomit off of one pant leg and shoe. "I'm doomed," he whined, before shambling off.

Still sitting on the hood, Carol continued to stroke Daryl's hair. His breathing was starting to slow down. "Not much longer, Daryl. Hershel will be back and then we can get you to bed. Looks like Beth won the bet," she mused. "You're still standing"

"Didn't puke on Glen," Daryl replied, feeling light-headed.

"There's still time."

"Lavender," Daryl whispered, so quiet that Carol had to lean over to hear. "Your clothes smell like lavender."

Carol smiled and watched the bustle of activity in the camp. She could see Hershel changing his pants behind a blanket Beth was holding up. Carl was still busy counting porcupine quills, making piles upon piles. Lori was stirring a steaming pot over the fire. Maggie and T-Dog were mixing up the salve, under Hershel's directions. It looked like Glen was getting a tongue lashing from Maggie while she worked. Carol frowned when she couldn't find Rick. Her brain checked the fact, it had been Rick missing earlier. Looking around, she spotted legs laying in the grass.

"Oh my God! Rick! Someone check on Rick!" Carol yelled and pointed in the right direction. Everyone in the camp froze and looked in the direction Carol was pointing. As one, they all reacted. Lori reached Rick first.

"Hershel, help! He's having trouble breathing. Help!" Lori cried out, her cooking spoon flinging out wildly.

Carol shushed Daryl when he tried to rise and help the others. He was barely conscious as it was. It wasn't hard to keep him still. She watched Hershel calmly walk over to their fallen leader and kneel beside him. After a few moments, she saw Hershel help Rick sit up. The man was grey-faced.

"Looks like he's having a late reaction to those bee stings. Maggie, I need that Benadryl. What I wouldn't give for an EpiPen, or two. Someone help me get him over to the fire. Let's see if we can't steam those air passages open." Hershel calmly directed the flurry of activity.

"He okay?" Daryl asked, pulling at Carol's hands.

"He might be allergic to bee stings. Hershel has it under control. Everything is going to be fine. You just relax." Carol said quietly.

"Looks like Rick is going to win the bet," Daryl whispered. With that, his eyes fluttered closed and Daryl Dixon passed out.

Carol grabbed his limp body helplessly, as his dead weight pulled them both down on the ground.

tbc...

_AN: And the bad luck continues! I can just imagine what might happen to them next. Of course, I'm always open to suggestion. I've learned my readers are often more inventively evil than I am (yes, that's a compliment). Let me hear your worst! _

_Also, brownie points to the person who can guess what Carol bet._

_Thanks - Surplus _


	4. Full Moon

_**Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1_

_AN: My fingers have a mind of their own!_

_Carol grabbed his limp body helplessly, as his dead weight pulled them both down on the ground._

Full Moon

Before she knew it, Carol found herself sliding uncontrollably off the hood and toward ground. Somehow, in that strange stop-motion like moment of the fall, Carol realized that Daryl was going to hit the ground first. His raw wounds and mangled leg were going straight into the dirt and vomit. She couldn't let that happened.

Carol didn't even really think about it. She just reacted. Carol tightened her grip, arched her back and steeled her legs, all in that precise moment they touched the ground. Amazingly, she managed to keep Daryl from completely hitting the dirt for one split second, one perfect instant where she was able to twist to one side and pull his unresisting frame down on top of hers.

A couple of things happened in that 'perfect instant'. First, an audible rip sounded and a quick flash of pain streaked across her hips as she twisted over the rusty steel bumper of the truck. Then, a soft pop rang and a familiar wrench tore her right knee as she continued to twist. The finale was a gut-busting oomph, as an unconscious Daryl unknowingly body-slammed her flat into the earth. All the air left Carol's lungs and stars filled her vision. Just beyond their human heap, all attention was on Rick.

"Help me get him over to the fire," Hershel repeated, propping up Rick's gasping form. "My back is spent. I need someone else to help him up."

It took a lot for Hershel to admit that he was hurting and needed physical help. Ever since his alcoholic father had beat the want, or need to ever rely on anyone else, Hershel prided himself on being his own man. But here he was, kneeling next to the first man he'd ever really chosen to rely on, in his stocking feet no less, and he found himself unable to get back up.

"I got this." T-Dog's ever present support materialized right by his side. Strong, dark hands gripped Rick under the armpits and hoisted him to his feet. As the two shuffled over toward the fire, Maggie also appeared to help him up.

"Thank you," Hershel said sincerely, using his oldest daughter as a climbing post.

"Daddy, where are your shoes?" Maggie was no stranger to her father's temperamental spine. She knew just how to hold herself to help him to his feet. She also knew not to talk about it.

"Your young Asian is cleaning his sickness off of them. He also has my pants that he soiled." Hershel didn't need to color his tone for Maggie to get his unspoken message.

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I'll see what's keeping him," Maggie soothed, as she helped her father over to where T-Dog had settled Rick. What a time for his back to give out. "Do you want your back medication?"

"No. I just need to stretch out the muscles. I must have strained something pulling quills. I'll be fine." Hershel settled himself in a camp chair next to Rick's wilting form. Lori hovered nearby, wanting to give comfort, but Rick unyieldingly refused to accept. Carl sat at Rick's feet, watching with worried eyes.

"He ever had a reaction to bee stings before?" Pulse was fast, but strong. The labored breathing appeared to be slowing.

"Never." Wives, disgraced or not, had their uses.

"Are there other allergies? Something I might not know of?"

"No."

Hershel tilted Rick's head, side to side, looking at the welts. He moved his examination on to the hands, swollen with stings. He then looked under the collar of Rick's shirt. Purplish, irregular hives were forming. Hershel lifted the bottom of shirt, revealing hives all down his trunk.

"Rick, how's your breathing? Can you talk?" Hershel reached into his ready bag and pulled out a stethoscope. He paused to glare at Glen, who had slunk up and carefully placed his freshly cleaned shoes by his feet. Carl leaned over and positioned each one right in front of Hershel's dirty, sock-clad toes.

"Not great," Ricked rasped, regaining his attention "Dizzy."

"Do you feel any swelling of your mouth and tongue?" Hershel hooked the stethoscope around his neck while he slid his feet into his still wet shoes. He frowned at the unpleasant sensation. Unfortunately, Rick thought the frown was directed at his symptoms.

"None. My chest feels tight, like I've got a cold," Rick said anxiously. He rubbed his chest vigorously. "It itches," he ventured to Hershel's pointed stare.

"That's a good sign, although I'd stop the scratching if I were you. The biggest dangers with an allergic reaction involve swelling of the mouth and closing off airways. Was the dizziness the reason you were in the grass?"

Rick nodded. He was feeling dizzy now and started listing in his seat. Without ceremony, Hershel grabbed Rick's shoulder and straightened him back up. T-Dog immediately stepped in to lend his support, patting Carl on the head. He handed Hershel a bubble pack of Benedryl with four remaining pills and then braced up Rick's shoulders. Carl got up and mimicked T-Dog's stance.

Four pills. Not nearly enough, especially with Daryl's possible reaction as well. Hershel shook his head in dismay as he donned the stethoscope. Rick needed the medication more. He would just keep a closer eye on Daryl.

"I need you to take slow, deep breaths."

Rick struggled to do just that. Hershel listened carefully.

"Asthma?"

"No."

"Even when you were a child?"

This time Rick nodded. Hershel sat back, feeling reassured.

"It's not uncommon for adults who had been asthmatic as children to have much more reactive lungs. With rest and some real food I think you are going to be fine. I want you clear your airways with a good, old-fashioned steam bath," Hershel explained.

"On it," Lori called, motioning T-Dog to come get the half kettle of boiling water. "Carl, I need you to bring a clean towel and that empty milk crate."

Carl flew around to comply. He was back in seconds with a stained green towel over one shoulder and the blue crate in his hands. T-Dog flipped the crate upside down and set the steaming, cast iron pot on top.

Hershel popped two pills out of the pack and handed them to Rick. "Take these and and steam those lungs until the water cools."

"I'll fall asleep if I take two of these." Rick tried to hand one back. "You should give this one to Daryl."

"I'm not certain Daryl is having a reaction. You need this far more." Hershel curled Rick's hand closed and pushed it back. "I want you to sleep. The rest of today. All night and most of tomorrow."

"I can't be down that long! We're already one short with Daryl out for the count," Rick protested weakly, coughing dryly. Beth appeared with a glass of water, as if on cue. Hershel just stared Rick down. Beaten for the moment, Rick swallowed both pills with a wince. "Just a nap, mind you."

T-Dog laughed and nudged Rick to lean forward over the steaming water. He snatched the towel off of Carl's shoulders and draped it over Rick's head. "You'd better do what the doctor says. Last man he treated, he took his pants. You're might be next!" T-Dog adjusted the towel like he knew what he was doing. "Glen and I have watch covered. You rest. Carl! What's the count?"

"Dunno. I knocked my piles around. I was up to 300." Carl complained. "I'm going to have to count 'em again."

"Tell you what. You get that bowl and I'll help you count right here, next to your dad. We'll keep him company." T-Dog pulled up his chair and leaned back. "Maybe I'll take me a nap, too. Might be the safest thing to do considering how this day is turning out."

Across the camp, Glen attempted to wash Hershel's puke-covered pants. He had never been good with laundry and his ineptness showed. It didn't help that Maggie sat and watched the whole endeavor without lending a hand. Glen felt just a little unfairly treated with her wise-cracking commentary. It was entirely one-sided.

"You ought to wipe off as much of that...ick.. before you put it in the water."

"Are your legs broken, or something? Look around! Find something yourself! There's leaves, sticks...your tongue."

"No, that's not gross. It's just a suggestion."

"Too much detergent. Now you are going to have to rinse forever!"

"Sniff it. If you still smell puke, you have to wash it again."

Glen couldn't get a word in edgewise.

Eventually the pants were clean enough to pass Maggie's inspection. She took hung them over a nearby branch and flopped down in a patch of sunshine. Golden light highlighted her features as she leaned back her head to soak in some rays.

Maggie was beautiful, Glen decided. Not just pretty, or sexy, or wholesome. She was all of those things and more. She beautiful and amazingly, she was his. He even liked her sharp tongue, although he'd never tell her.

As he sat and admired his golden goddess, a thought occurred to him. She just didn't seem the type.

"Hey, Maggie."

"Hmmm?"

"I never knew you were a Firefly fan."

"Fireflies? Wrong time of year, babe."

"Not fireflies. Firefly. You know, the TV show. I could have sworn you were quoting Jayne Cobb with that "I could stand to see some more;'. Glen said the last part using a high-pitched falsetto.

Maggie laughed and batted her eyes at him. "I should have known you'd catch that. I can smell a sci-fi geek a mile away. Don't mention it to my father. He doesn't approve. He watched the first episode once and was mortified that Inara was a prostitute."

Glen scooted closer, his attraction growing. "Companion," Glen automatically corrected, picking up her arm. "It's a respectable profession," he murmured planting little kisses up the length of her appendage.

After peering around to be sure no one was looking, Maggie tilted her neck so that Glen could keep planting that kisses all the way up. "You think that's bad, imagine his reaction when he found out I'd been to DragonCon in Atlanta.," she purred.

"DragonCon! No way!," Glen exclaimed. "I've been there going there since I was, like, twelve." Glen was ecstatic. Visions of scantily clad women in costume flitted across his mind. He kissed Maggie passionately as wondered if he had seen Maggie there in the past, and had just not known.

"Please tell me you dressed up," Glen moaned, fighting for leverage. He could have sworn the sunlight made her skin taste even better than usual.

"Uh huh," Maggie agreed, breathless, running her hands up inside of Glen's shirt.

"Did your costume involve duct tape?" Glen frantically pulled Maggie closer. "Please tell me you used duct tape," When she nodded, Glen pushed her back and climbed on top. "That's the hottest thing I ever heard you say," he groan, inflamed.

Breathing hard, Maggie grabbed Glen's shirt at the neck and pulled him down.

"Kirk, or Picard," she asked huskily, licking her bottom lip.

Glen answered her with actions, instead of words.

Carol was disgusted with herself. She had lain here for at least twenty minutes, trying to push an unconscious Daryl off her prone form. She really didn't want him to wake up and find them in this...position. Try as she might, Carol just couldn't find the right leverage to get him off without rolling his injuries into the dirt. That would have defeated the purpose of her targeted plunge. Laying on the ground blocked by the truck on one side, she had only one direction she could reasonably go.

To be fair, she had spent the first ten minutes trying to get the air back in her lungs. It was ironic that she could hear Hershel examine Rick for breathing problems, while she lay right behind him completely unable to draw breath. How could anyone not notice them on the ground!

She paused from her struggles to let the pulses of pain radiating from her right knee wash through her system. She visualized pulling the pain from the joint and shooting it out her fingertips in an electric blue light. This wasn't the first time she had blown her knee, nor even the second or third time. She and her knee had a long, troubled history together. It kept her from running much and gave her trouble on stairs. The pain management techniques were suggestions from a friend. Strangely enough, they worked.

Carol would jokingly tell people that it was an old football injury, whenever she ended up on crutches. There was a kernel truth in that story. The original injury came when Ed got drunk watching the Superbowl. He had drunkenly knocked her down the basement stairs for burning the nachos she had in the oven for half-time. Karma got Ed in the long run, Carol thought with fierce satisfaction.

Heavy on her chest, Daryl began to stir, drawing Carol's attention away from her own pain. She wrapped her arms around his torso stilling his groggy movements. She knew that the moment Daryl was fully awake, he would not allow her to take these liberties, to touch him so openly. He would say something hateful and limp away to lick his own wounds. It was a defense mechanism.

The only thing Daryl feared in this new world was the emotional and physical intimacy of others. He could, and often did, touch her when circumstances warranted it. If she needed a hand up or a shoulder cramp massaged, he'd tentatively reach out and fix what he could. Reverse the situation and he would run from Carol's helping hand like she was spewing acid on him, instead of offering a hug. It was infuriating. The only reason he allowed himself to be draped on her lap earlier, was that he had been too exhausted to resist.

No matter, Carol mused. She had this opportunity and was going to make the most of it. She silently told her pulsing knee to be quiet, while she shushed Daryl's small waking noises.

Hands roaming, Carol took full advantage of his disoriented state. She ought to be ashamed of herself, but she wasn't. Elated at her boldness, Carol slipped her hands under his shirt and felt solid muscle all along Daryl's flanks and even thicker muscle down his back. She frowned a little at the prominence of his rib cage, each bone hard and long under the skin. The man had lost more weight than she had realized. That was something she could work on later.

Knowing her time was short as Daryl continued to waken, Carol curled her abs slightly to give herself more reach. Her hands slid sensuously, over bare hip, toward her guilty prize. She curled up a little more, pulling those yoga belly abs tighter, to let her gain enough visual height to peer over Daryl's shoulder and down to his muscled backside. Sliding one hand down, reaching carefully for the only undamaged part, Carol's fingers hit pay dirt. She gave his ass a little squeeze.

"Huh?" came an unmistakable, groggy southern drawl.

"Good Lord! First Maggie and Glen and now you two? Is it a full moon, or something?" Hershel bellowed.

Carol froze and glanced toward the camp. Eight pairs of shocked eyes greeted her.

A second, perfect moment came over Carol. A split-second of utmost clarity, where a lot of things happened all at the same time. Carol was instantly aware of three facts. First, the sweater had fallen off on the way down the truck hood. Second, Daryl was lying, butt bare, in a missionary style position between her sprawled legs. Third, she, mousy Carol Peletier, had been caught red-handed with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, while the entire camp watched. Mortified, Carol wondered what she could possible do for an encore.

"Carol, is something wrong?" Daryl rasped, obviously confused that he was laying on her chest. His dirty, blonde hair stuck up at all angles.

Trying to be subtle, Carol released her grip and slid her hand off to the side of Daryl's hip not facing the crowd. Face burning, she rolled her torso back down, vertebra by vertebra. Once flat, she covered her flaming face with her hands. She had the worse luck!

"How'd we get on the ground?" Daryl hissed in pain, as he tried unsuccessfully to rise and move away.

Carol couldn't help but uncover her face and look at him, the object of her shame.

Sharpened by fever, his eyes were piercingly, bright blue. Daryl innocently asked again. "What's wrong?" He pushed himself up on his hands, unknowingly pushing the wrong parts of himself closer to the wrong parts of her. Carol could hear the twitters of amusement sprinkle through the crowd. Anger surged through her.

"You hurt?" Daryl pushed himself a little higher. "Did I hurt you?"

His concern undid her. Here she was, the wanton vixen who had just molested his unconscious body, receiving worried glances and questions from this badly injured man. Embarrassed and ashamed, Carol did the one thing she had never done before in her mousy, little life She attacked.

"You stink, Daryl! That's what's wrong. When's the last time you took a bath?" Carol all but screamed, deflecting. She propped herself up by one elbow, raising the guilty hand up to point accusingly at the streak of dirt his body had left on her shirt.

To her surprise, Daryl didn't flinch back, or crawl away like she expected. Instead, he gave her a grudging nod of respect, a small smile just tugging up the corners of his mouth.

"Expect I do," Daryl replied, tracing the dirt on her shirt. Carol could feel the heat of his finger through the cloth. " You don't smell like no roses, either."

"That's not me, that's Glen's vomit," Carol mused,her flash of anger fading. She reached that same guilty hand over to feel his forehead. Instead of pulling away. Daryl leaned his hot forehead into her cooler palm. He was burning up. "Hershel, Daryl's fever is worse. A lot worse. There's no way he'd let me do this if he was in his right mind."

"Maybe we can both take a bath," Daryl ventured, oblivious to everything but Carol's cool hand.

Before Carol could respond, T-Dog stepped in, kicking dirt over the remnants of Glen's spew. He carefully draped a blanket over Daryl's naked lower half and lifted the redneck up by his torso. Without knowing it, T-Dog knocked Carol's bad knee directly into truck's bumper. Carol gasped and clutched her leg hard.

"Come on, Romeo. I got a bed ready for you, right over there next to Rick. Damn! You are hot!" T-Dog struggled to keep Daryl upright, while he attempted to keep the blanket in place.

"Stop." Daryl batted at T-Dog's hands. "Carol's hurt." His limbs were as wobbly as a newborn colt's.

"You stop. Carol's not hurt," T-Dog struggled. "Hold still." Glen slinked over to help. His shirt was inside out.

Maggie stepped past the three men to help Carol off the ground, noticing for the first time the woman's writhing pain. "Carol is too, hurt. Daryl Dixon, just what did you do?" she asked with mock severity, not looking at the stricken man. "Daddy, I need you over here," she said, crouching next to Carol.

Hershel shuffled over, bent nearly in half by his painful back. "I'm far too popular today." He stopped first and put a hand on Daryl's head.

"See if you can get some Tylenol and water in him before you lay him down. I'd say an infection is a certainty. We're going to need some antibiotics." Hershel followed Daryl's intensely sad gaze down to Carol. Maggie had the injured woman lying on her stomach. Hershel could see a ragged gash, about seven inches long, parting the fabric of her pants from hip to mid-back. Blood soaked an oval in the cloth, all the way around the wound. Good thing he already had his suture kit out.

"Did I do that?" Daryl whispered. He was only on his feet by the strength of T-Dog and Glen's arms.

"No, son. This is not your fault." Hershel wrestled Daryl's resisting chin up, so their eyes met. "You didn't do this. None of this is your fault. You lay down and I'll bring her over to lay next to you," he promised, patting Daryl's arm.

Turning his attention, Hershel took two steps over to Maggie. His back wouldn't even allow him to think about kneeling. "What happened here?"

"I blew out my knee when we hit the ground," Carol explained laying her head on folding arms. "I've torn a ligament. It's happened before and this feels exactly like the last couple of times."

"Define 'couple'," Hershel asked, tiredly.

"Uh, maybe four times? Once might have been just a strain, but I didn't want to go to the doctor to find out," Carol thought out.

"How many of those four times did you seek medical help?"

"Just the first time. The doctor just wrapped it, put me on crutches for two weeks and told me to keep it iced. I just did that every time it happened." Carol didn't explain that treating it herself was far easier explaining to a doctor just how she got hurt.

"And the gash? What happened there?"

Maggie answered. "Looks like she rolled across that rusty, broken spot on the fender. See that pointy place? It's all covered in blood."

"Please tell me you've had a tetanus shot in the last few years," Hershel huffed. "The last thing this group of accident-prone fools need is a raging case of lockjaw!"

Carol didn't look up but gave a meek thumbs up. "I got one about six months before the end of the world."

"Thank heavens for small favors."

Hershel straightened his screaming back just a tad and pulled a wrinkled handkerchief out of his front pocket. He wiped down his face and gathered his thoughts. He carefully folded his handkerchief back up and put it away as Glen came rushing back over to help Carol to her feet. Hershel could see T-Dog spreading a third blanket out next to Rick and Daryl's prone forms. He heartily wished for blanket of his own.

This all had to stop. Immediately. Hershel flattened his hand and banged it repeatedly on the truck hood, getting everyone's attention.

"I want to make an announcement," Hershel drew himself up despite his lumbar troubles. "There will be no more injuries today. None! No broken bones. No more stitches. No burns, or busted fingers. Not one of you will cut off any part of their anatomy and expect me to reattach it. No one will drop anything on theirs, or anyone else's foot. I call a complete, and immediate cessation of all injury." Hershel paused for dramatic effect, all eyes riveted in shock. He finished by pointing one, hard finger at a gaping Lori. "And you are not allowed to go into labor!"

The only person not completely floored by Hershel's rant was Carl. The boy was sitting next to his piles of quills looking at an old calendar.

"Cool!" he crowned. "It really is a full moon tonight. And guess what? Tomorrow's Friday the thirteenth!"

tbc...

_AN: DragonCon is a real event. It's a sci-fi convention hosted in Atlanta over the Labor Day weekend. I've been to the last 3 of 26 years it's been put on. About 40 percent of the 45,000 attendees wear costumes. I've seen everything from Princess Leia slave girls to a legion of hard-bodied gladiators. And yes, there are always women dressed only in duct tape. My husband takes alllll those pictures. If Glen really lived in Atlanta, there is no way he wouldn't have attended. Check it out on the internet! Oh, and they have a Walking Dead panel. Actors who were zombies on the show were in the audience! _

_I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. I blame Carol's flirting on the show! Please drop me a review and let me know what you think. Thank you! Surplus._


	5. MASH

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1.

**M*A*S*H**

Rick laid his head back down on his pillow and shut his eyes. The world was swirling enough as the Benadryl kicked in, without adding the basic dizziness of the bee venom reaction. Who knew he was allergic? He certainly didn't.

Turns out, there were a lot of things he didn't know. He didn't know that Carl had a crush on Beth. He didn't know that Hershel had a bad back. He didn't know that T-Dog had some of the gentlest hands he had ever encountered. He was starting to think he didn't know Carol at all, based on what he just witnessed. He also didn't know that Daryl, the man who could and would go for days without speaking, became Chatty Cathy when he had a fever.

Eyes shut, Rick just laid there and listened. He could hear both men coming his way. T-Dog was heavy in his tread, probably supporting Daryl. The sound of Daryl's bad leg dragging was pretty audible.

"Take the Tylenol."

"Is Carol ok?"

"Sure man, Hershel and Maggie are right there with her. See? Take the pills... Daryl!" _Sounds of one hand slapping another. _Rick resisted the urge to open his eyes and see.

"She don't look ok. Why's she holding her leg like that?"

"Don't look at her. Look at me. _Me_, Daryl. Ok. Now, take these pills and drink that whole glass of water."

"No. I don't take pills." _Sounds of a plastic cup being flung against a tree and water splashing was overlaid with quiet cursing. _Rick suppressed a smile. He was supposed to be asleep.

"Yes you do. Just pretend they're...um...crack."

"Crack! You don't swallow crack. You stupid or something?"

"Right... then they're...um...crystal?"

"You are stupid. I don't take drugs. Get away! Quit!" _Mild struggles finishing in the sound of ripping fabric._

"Hold still! I've seen your stash. You can't tell me you've never used."

"Merle's stash. I ain't Merle. Never have been. Keeping it for him. Grew up in a house full of drugs and I don't do drugs. You know how hard that is?" _Exhalation of air coupled with a grunt. Elbow to the gut?_

"I know. Believe me, I know. My mistake. Sorry, man." _T-Dog, kinda airy. Definitely got an elbow to the gut._

"What's wrong with Rick? Why's he laying there?"

"Dammit, Daryl. Why can't you just do what I tell you?" _Big, irritated sigh._ "Rick got stung by bees. He had a reaction, but he's gonna be fine."

"Don't look fine. He's kinda wheezy."

"Stop that. He'll be fine. Better than you, stubborn hillbilly." _More slapping._

"'Least you got that part right."

"What part?"

"Hillbilly. If you're gonna insult a man, you should at least get it right. 'Sides, hillbilly is a complamence," _That last part was slurred. Sounds of a chair being drug closer followed by a heavy flop. Sounded like T-Dog finally won._

"Compliment? How so? No, drink all of it."

"Hillbillies are crafty" _gulp_ "and resourceful" _gulp_ "mountain folk of the Smoky Mountains and Ozarks. Rednecks are to the east 'n south. Maybe Texas."

"Ok, I get it. Now take the pills." _Really heavy sigh. _

"Both groups have organ..origan..origet..._roots_ ..in Scottish clans in the Carolinas. Billie was a Scottish term for...Hey, you think those red panties are Carol's? She likes red."

"What? No! I mean, I have no idea."

"Knew you were stupid. Is it getting colder?"

"Your fever is probably getting worse. Shit, it is. No more games, Daryl. Take the pills."

"Water's gone."

"You stay there and I'll be right back." _Shuffling sound moving off, liquid pouring, a couple of clangs and footsteps came back. _"I brought you some more of that tea with lots of honey. Should make those go down easier. Where's the pills?"

"Took 'em. Gone. Can I go see Carol now? I think she's hurt."

"No. You _will_ stay in that chair. Took me long enough to get you to sit down-"

"Ain't sitting. _Can't_ sit. Remember what I said about you being stupid? I'm kinda leaning. That count?"

"Look at that! You threw those perfectly good pills on the ground! Now you're going to have to take them dirty. And you're telling me I'm stupid, you dirty, dirt eater! I swear, when you get better, I'm gonna beat some sense into you. And some manners! Now take the damn pills."

"Don't want 'em. I'm fine. What the hell is a dirty, dirt eater?"

"It's a ...well... hell if I know. You called me stupid!"

"I'm sorry I called you stupid...five times. I was kidding."

"It's okay. I know you were putting me on. But you're the stupid one. You didn't call me stupid five times."

"Sure I did. Three times out loud, twice in my head. I say all kinds of shit in my head. Don't you?"

"Fair enough. Hey, I know how you can make it up to me. Take those pills."

"No!"

Rick had had enough. Amusing as most of that exchange had been, that last word had been terse. He opened his eyes at the sounds of struggling just in time to see T-Dog get Daryl in a headlock and start to pry the man's jaws open in stereo vision. The double images of the struggling pair wavered distressingly. He blinked several times to clear his sight.

"Stop," he rasped, too quietly. Rick cleared his throat and tried again. "Stop!" Both men froze.

Daryl was a sorry mess. Rick could practically see the fever radiating off his body like August heat does on asphalt. His pock-holed, battered leg stuck out from the blanket, oozing blood and white stuff. Rick sincerely hoped the white stuff was salve and not pus.

"Daryl. You got hurt. Remember?" Rick pushed himself up on one elbow and locked his gaze. Daryl nodded. T-Dog relaxed his grip and unwound his arm.

"Porcupine."

"That's right. Now you have a fever. A high one."

More nodding. Daryl reached one hand down to touch the ooze, but T-Dog stopped him. "I don't feel right."

"That's the fever." Rick cleared his throat again and gestured for the mug of tea. Daryl handed it over. Rick took a drink. It was good, all warm and sweet. He handed Daryl the mug back.

"Remember when I said this wasn't a democracy? Take the pills. It's an order," Rick demanded in a steely voice.

Without another word, Daryl took the four Tylenol from T-Dog and swallowed them down and then drained the rest of the mug of tea. He looked so defeated that Rick almost regretted the order.

"Thanks, man." T-Dog took the empty mug from Daryl and practically carried him over to the blanket laid out on the other side of Rick. He got Daryl situated on his stomach and carefully laid the blanket over his body. "I'll be right back with some bandages and clothes. Can't have you lying there all nekid and such." Daryl didn't rise to the bait, still deflated.

Rick lay back down and considered what he had done. It was harsh, but necessary. He was still struggling with the unpleasant aspects of his unquestioned authority. Once upon a time, he would have found some way to get Daryl to take those pills without taking away his choices. Nowadays, he didn't have the luxury of things taking time. But today, he thought he might make it a little less hard.

"Hey Daryl. What were you saying about the origins of hillbillies?" Rick reached over and placed a hand on Daryl's fevered back, a touch of friendship and comfort.

"It was nothin'. Just rambling." Daryl said into his pathetic excuse for a pillow.

"I want to know. I used to watch the History Channel all the time."

"You serious? Me too. I love that shit." Daryl's voice brightened.

With that, Rick smiled as he sank into swirly darkness to the sound of Daryl's rough voice telling him the history of hillbillies, rednecks and mountain lore.

It was all Carol could do to keep still while she watched T-Dog attempt to wrestle some Tylenol into Daryl's resisting form. Men were idiots. She could have gotten Daryl to take those pills in two seconds flat.

Carol was perched on the hood of the truck while Hershel directed Glen on wrapping her damaged knee and Maggie on assessing the long gash on her upper hip. She wasn't really paying attention to any of them, all her attention was on the scene across the way.

"Carol, are you listening?"

"Hmmm?" Carol divided her attention between Hershel's concerned face and T-Dog manhandling Daryl onto a folding camp chair after being elbowed in the gut. She shifted her body awkwardly so that both objects of her scrutiny were in her field of vision. She was worried that Daryl would lose patience with all the concern and attention and start swinging. She was even more worried when he never started swinging. She needed to get over there.

"That's what I was just saying," Hershel explained slowly, as if Carol wasn't quite right in the head. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head?"

She must have said that last part out loud without realizing it. Carol started to assure Hershel she was fine when T-Dog, obviously pushed beyond all patience, seized Daryl suddenly and clamped him a headlock, prying at Daryl's clenched jaws.

Not thinking, Carol slid off the hood and made to go and stop the melee. Unfortunate for Glen, Carol slid right on top of his bent back. Her bad leg was unable to bear any weight, so the slide became a collision. Carol found herself in a second heap on the ground on the same day. This time she was on top staring at the tag to Glen's shirt that was inside out. Someone, Maggie probably, had written 'Walker Bait' followed by three little hearts on the tag, using a red permanent marker.

"Carol! Can you just slow down?" Hershel admonished. "I promise that I'll get you over there."

"Walker Bait?" Carol asked while Maggie pulled her up.

"Pet name," Maggie said with a wicked grin. "Hey, Walker Bait, you ok down there?"

"Don't call me that. And I'm fine. Carol isn't heavy at all." Glen pushed off the ground easily with a military push up. Then he popped to his feet with the ease of someone really young. Carol resisted the jealous urge to kick him in the shins for his youth. Instead, she apologized profusely as Maggie shouldered one of Carol's arms.

Across the camp, Carol's heart bled when Daryl slumped into the chair and listlessly took the Tylenol at Rick's direction. He looked so broken. Carol decided that she was going to give Rick a piece of her mind. But by the time she hobbled over to her waiting blanket, Daryl was laying down on his stomach talking animatedly to Rick. About rednecks and hillbillies?

Carol was astounded. Why was Daryl acting so out of character? And how did he know so much? He sounded like a college professors giving a well thought out lecture. Carol had long suspected that Daryl used bad grammar and a thick accent as a way to deflect attention from himself. It had to be strategically useful when people assumed that you were stupid, when you weren't.

"You ever have stitches before?" Maggie asked, helping Carol limp over to the blanket next to Daryl.

"Many times," Carol said ruefully. She smiled at Daryl, who had stopped talking to watch.

"Without any numbing?" Maggie asked, apologetically. "Daddy says that we don't have anything to give you."

"I'm sure I'll manage. My knee hurts too much to notice much of anything else. Should I get down on my stomach?" Carol looked over to Rick. He appeared to be sound asleep, snoring softly.

"I think you can save those pants. That rip ought to be easy to sew up. Need some help getting out of them?" Maggie asked candidly, fingering the rip in the jeans. "Your underwear is going to have to go, too. I got an idea for that."

"What?" Maggie had Carol's full attention. "You've to be kidding! Hershel can stitch it up through the hole. I'll fix it later," Carol said aghast. Below her, Daryl chuckled wickedly.

"No." Maggie shook her head. "Afraid not. Daddy's back is going out, so I'm going to have to sew you up. I need to see what I'm doing," she said to Carol's horrified face. "Don't worry. I've stitched up lots of things. Hog skin is a lot like human once you shave the hair off." Maggie fetched the folding chair and helped Carol sit down. "It'll be fine. Be right back."

"Ain't karma a bitch?" Daryl laughed, as Maggie walked away calling for Beth. "You okay?" His voice quieted, sincere.

Carol looked down. Daryl's face was unguardedly concerned. He had reached out one hand to touch her shoe. "I'm fine. How are you doing?" she asked, scrutinizing his fever-bright, blue eyes.

"I'll survive. T-Dog is getting my pants.. Hope I still have some." Daryl rolled from his stomach on to his undamaged side. Carol tried not to notice how the blanket fell slightly away baring part of his lower belly. "We're gonna match," he said with a grin.

"What is with you today?" Carol carefully reached down to feel his forehead. Daryl tried to bat her hands away, much gentler than he did T-Dog. Carol grabbed his waving hand instead. Still hot. "I've never heard you say so much."

"Don't know. It's like someone turned a spigot on in my mouth and everything keeps pouring out. I'm gonna flood the yard soon," he trailed off distracted. After a thoughtful moment he asked, "How'd you know I was a towhead as a kid? My hair turned dark years ago." Daryl gave her a shrewd sideways look. "Been trying to figure out what Rick might have said to Carl."

Beside them, Rick gave a snore that sounded a lot like a snort and turned over facing the other direction. Carol suspected that he was feigning sleep.

"You can't be serious. Do you really not know?" Carol shifted her weight in the camp chair trying to ease the strain on her aching knee. She really needed to get it elevated. Where was Maggie?

"Naw. It's not like I can Google it anymore." He was perfectly serious.

"Well, if you want to know what Rick said, you should ask him," Carol reasoned.

"Or Carl," Daryl agreed, yawning. He curled his head on a crooked elbow and closed his eyes.

Glen sat amide a pile of nylon and canvas, a pile of long sticks at his side. Systematically, he picked up each stick and attempted to guide it through the center pole channel of the group's biggest tent. So far, he had gone through a dozen sticks, all unsuccessful. He paused while T-Dog walked past him headed toward Daryl's motorcycle.

"Why the long face?" T-Dog asked Glen as he passed by.

"The elastic broke on the center tent pole. Now the pieces keep coming apart inside the stupid channel," Glen sighed.

"Use one of the smaller tents. You know half the side poles are broken on that one. I don't know why we're dragging it around." T-Dog answered absently while unbuckling the straps on the motorcycle panniers.

"Hershel wants this one. Say's he wants all the wounded under the same roof to make them easier to treat." Glen pulled out his pocket knife and tried whittling down the bumps on the longest stick.

"Like a field hospital?"

"Guess so. This is impossible. These sticks are never going to work." Glen tossed the sticks aside in a huff. "Hershel is already pissed at me, which makes Maggie moody. What are you doing?" Glen asked. "Need help? Wanna switch?"

"I'm trying to find Daryl some pants. You would not believe what that man has in these saddle bags," T-Dog exclaimed.

"What?" Glen got up and left the tent graveyard behind. He peered over T's shoulder into the depth of the leather bag. "What's in there?"

"Some of it you'd expect; tool kit, Chilton Triumph repair manual, stuff for his crossbow, some small engine parts, tire gauge, and a broken pair of sunglasses. Oh, and Merle's supposed stash," T-Dog said pulling the last item out.

Glen watched as T-Dog opened the bag and rifled through the contents. He seemed to be counting silently. "What are you doing?"

"Checking to see if it's all here," T-Dog muttered. "Damned if it ain't! I owe that man an apology." He closed the drug bag and set in on the ground shaking his head.

"You've been checking behind Daryl?" Glen hissed. "Does he know this?" Glen looked around like he thought people might overhear.

"I'm not proud of it...now,"T-Dog exclaimed rubbing his chin. "Back when Shane kept ranting about Daryl being a meth-head, well, I believed him. Or wanted to. I wanted to keep tabs just in case he went crazy or overdosed. Looks like I was wrong on all counts."

"We're all guilty of making assumptions." Glen tried to peer around T's arms into the saddle bags. "Forget that. What else is in the bag?"

T-Dog returned to the contents. "Check this out." He pulled out a tiny plastic compass on a necklace string. It was the kind of compass that could be found in a box of Cracker Jacks if you were very lucky.

"Looks pretty old. See how scratched up the plastic is," Glen lifted the toy compass and tapped the face. "Hey, it kinda works."

"What do you think of this?" T-Dog held up a black t-shirt with the sleeves still intact. When Glen shrugged, T-Dog gestured toward the logo across the upper left side.

"Dixon Demolition. We blow shit up," Glen said thoughtfully.

"What? It doesn't say that!" T-Dog snatched the shirt back and read for himself. "Removal, Recycle, Remediation."

"Look at the back," Glen corrected, jiggling the fabric.

Turning the shirt around, T-Dog read the back prints. "We blow shit up! No way!"

"Yes way," Glen grinned. "You know, I once asked Daryl what he did before. He told me he blew shit up. I thought he was being a smart-ass."

"Damn, I can just imagine Daryl lighting the fuse on a stick of dynamite and chucking it into an old shack. Kaboom!" T-Dog laughed, folding up the shirt.

"I think I've seen trucks with that company name on them. I went downtown to watch the implosion of the old Roosevelt House. I'm pretty sure Dixon Demolition was the name of the company setting the charges," Glen mused. "That was a pretty awesome explosion. Pop pop pop and the whole thing collapsed straight down."

"Looks Daryl is full of surprises." T-Dog held up a pair of Georgia Bulldog sweat pants. "You think he went to the University of Georgia? I would have assumed he was a high school dropout."

"There you go assuming again. Hand him those pants and see what he says," Glen suggested. "Hello! What's this?" Glen picked up a Hustler magazine. After looking around for witnesses, Glen quickly thumbed to the centerfold and carefully let the picture unfold.

"Don't you know not to touch another man's skin magazine?" T-Dog asked even as he craned his neck to see the glossy spread. Whistling in satisfaction. "He's got good taste."

"Why is that," Glen asked distractedly.

"You do know what men do while they look at those things."

"I know what I do," Glen smiled, then frowned. "Ew. I didn't think of that." Using only his fingertips, Glen closed the magazine and placed it carefully back in the bag. He rummaged around a little more and pulled a battered box of Trojans out. "I wonder if he would miss a couple?" He rattled the box to estimate how many might be in there. Then he looked at the expiration date.

"Dude, these things expired in June of 2009!" Glen was terribly disappointed. "You think he didn't realize they were no good, or that he's been carrying them around that long?"

"I don't want to think about it. That would be a really long dry spell. A really long one." T-Dog tossed the box back in. Glen reached back in and pulled out the broken sunglasses.

"You know, Daryl is always squinting. I've heard that people with light eyes are extra sensitive to the sun." Glen tapped the broken shades in his hand. A plan formed up in this mind. "We should stop snooping before someone catches us."

"Yeah, and tells Daryl," T-Dog agreed, picking up the sweat pants. He turned around and noticed the tent pile. "Why don't you just tie the tent up between the trees, like a canopy. I think we have a bunch of rope."

"Not a bad idea," Glen agreed, tucking the broken sunglasses in his back pocket. The two men turned and headed back.

"Perfect. Both men are asleep."

Maggie walked up to Carol holding a folded blanket. "You still have my red thong?" she asked.

Carol pulled the lacy scrap of panty out of her pocket and shook it at Maggie. "Daryl thinks its mine," she said almost ruefully. "I've never even owed anything like that."

"Well, you own one now," Maggie smirked. She opened up the blanket and formed a wide semicircle with the cloth. "Can you stand? You can lean on me. You need to be quick because Glen is on his way to set up the big tent over you three."

"I can't wear that," Carol protested, pulling herself up on one leg. The long cut across her hip made itself known for the first time, by stinging painfully. Carol hissed while she unbuttoned her jeans. "Just pull down the top of the bikinis I'm wearing. They can sit low on my hips. I'm going to need some pants when you're done. Can you get my yoga tights? They should be comfortable enough and be easy on my knee."

"The thong would be better. They fit higher on your waist, above where I'll be putting stitches. They won't interfere at all." Maggie said with an all too innocent expression. "You'll be making it easier on me," she cajoled.

Carol gave her a wary look and braced herself on Maggie's shoulder. Carefully, she nudged the jeans down and managed to lightly hop out of them. Maggie shifted her weight and kicked the jean to one side. Both women froze when the clothing kicked straight onto Daryl's legs. Carol was all too aware that if Daryl should wake suddenly, he'd be getting an eye-full. They both held their breath a moment, but he didn't stir.

"Now those granny panties," Maggie urged.

"These are not granny panties," Carol grouched, wiggling her undies down. "I'll have you know these are Hanes, super soft cotton bikinis with the wide comfort band."

"Granny panties!" Maggie stated. "Nobody wears bikinis anymore."

"Why not?" Carol scowled, gesturing for the thong.

"Because God invented Victoria Secret. The rest is history," Maggie declared. "No, they go the other way. No, the other, other way. Now they're inside out."

"How can there even be an inside out?" Carol gritted. "There's nothing there!"

Maggie rolled her eyes and snatched the wad of spandex. She gave a flick of her wrist and unrolled the mess. "There. Step into it, just like that."

Carol gave her a withering look and looped one hole around her bad leg, then nimbly hopped into the other. She leaned against Maggie and pulled them up. "I feel like a harlot."

"Even better," Maggie grinned at Carol's glare. "If you want that man, you'll do everything I say." She dropped one side of the blanket to tug the thong into a better position. Then she helped Carol to hop over to the blanket to lay down.

"What makes you think I want any man?" Carol muttered. She lowered her body carefully onto her stomach, mindful of her throbbing knee.

"Oh, please! I've seen how you look at him," Maggie said, tenting the blanket over Carol's lower half. "And everybody has seen how Daryl watches you." Maggie wiggled her eyebrows up and down suggestively.

"He does not watch me!" Carol protested. Maggie just gave her a wide-eyed stare. "Fine, he does. But Daryl watches everyone."

Glen and T-Dog walked over interrupting the two women. Glen was dragging a pile of nylon, T-Dog was carrying a pair of sweat pants.

"Those are his favorite," Carol pointed out, blushing. She hoped that the two men hadn't witnessed her depravity before she got under the blanket. "If you'll bring me my bag, I'll split the side seams on for that bad leg. I think I can improvise a way to lace it up so it won't drag on the wounds, but provide easy access. Afterward, I can sew it back together."

"How do you know those are his favorite," Glen asked curiously. He wondered why Carol was blushing. No doubt, Maggie was to blame.

"I do his laundry," Carol said simply. "They show up in the pile a lot and he's careful with them."

"We found a shirt with 'Dixon Demolition' on the front," T-Dog continued. "You know anything about that?"

"I've seen the shirt, but you know Daryl. He likes his privacy, so I've never asked. I figured it was a family business," she replied. "Why don't you ask him when he's more clear-headed." T-Dog nodded and headed off to get Carol's bag.

Glen uncoiled a length of rope and got to work. Taking a quick scan of the nearby trees, Glenn created a crisscrossing pattern of rope, forming a roof-like frame. Tying the end off low around one tree trunk, Glen heaved the nylon over the frame creating a billowing canopy. He snagged the bottom edges and started staking them down.

"Pretty clever," Maggie said admiringly. "That skill could come in handy." Carol applauded. Glen took a bow.

"Good job, man," T-Dog approved. He handed Carol's bag to her, then reached up to fasten a long wooden sign to the open tent doorway. Just then, Hershel walked up, his back bent painfully. He stopped and read the sign.

'M*A*S*H 4077th," he chuckled. "How appropriate," he said as he shuffled inside. "Ok, Carol, let's see about getting those stitches in."

_tbc..._

_**AN**__: How'd you like my idea of what Daryl did before the end of the world? That notion has been bouncing in my imagination a long time. Drop me a line and let me know. I love hearing from you! Thanks! Surplus _


	6. Romeo & Juliet

_**Disclaimer: **__See chapter 1._

_AN: I think we all need some comic relief after the last show! No spoilers here, but for crying out loud, I'm starting to wonder who's going to be standing at the end of the season. _

_I hope you enjoy ~ Surplus_

**Romeo & Juliette**

The day was warming up nicely. Beth could appreciate the feel of sunlight on her face without having it melt her skin into a puddle. Things were so different living outside. She missed her room with all of her silly, comforting stuff. She missed hot showers and long, soaky baths in her mother's claw foot tub. She missed her Android Bionic phone intensely. Maggie had got it for her sixteenth birthday and ended up in a fight with their dad over it. But what she missed most of all was air conditioning and central heat.

"What if a walker attacks? Here. Put your finger here."

Beth sighed and pulled her attention from the beautiful spring day and put it back on Carl Grimes. In her mind, Beth always used his first and last name. Carl Grimes. She didn't much like the name Carl, because of a crush she had on Karl Kisser back in the seventh grade. That boy's name hadn't been Kisser, but that's how she longingly thought of him. He had some long, foreign sounding name beginning with a 'K' and ending with a 'vic'. She couldn't pronounce it. He had been tall and dark and devastatingly gorgeous and had committed the sin of sharing her passed love note with his friends. Karl Kisser was Beth's first and most humiliating crush.

Beth gave Carl Grimes a stern look of disapproval, as she obligingly put her index finger down. "We're going to get in trouble. Ouch!" She yanked her hand back and quietly sucked on her finger. When she had kids one day, she would never pick the name Carl.

"Sorry. Next time move your finger out of the way. What if a herd comes by? What then?" Carl, a.k.a. Carl Grimes, glanced at Beth sucking her finger, and then turned his attention back on the loop in his hand. He gently let go and eased his hand away. The loop dangled lifelessly from the bench branch. At least this time, it hadn't popped back.

"What are you trying to do, jinx us? Don't even mention a herd. Hmm.. I don't think that's tight enough. Look, it's all floppy." Beth gave Carl Grimes a withering look. She was secretly impressed that he had been able to set the snare, even if it wasn't quite right. Of course, she'd never tell him.

"I can fix that. Move over a minute. What about robber...or a cougar, or a bear, or … something?" Carl moved to carefully undo the loop and tighten it, just like Daryl had explained. Daryl was his buddy. He always showed him cool things like setting snares and gutting varmints.

"Cougars are out west. We have panthers in the south. Haven't you ever seen one in the Atlanta Zoo?" Beth blew a stray strand of blonde hair out of her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. She didn't really want to be out here with Carl Grimes, but she didn't want to hang around camp anymore. She had run to catch up with the boy after seeing Maggie goad Carol into putting on those red thong panties. Her eyes were still burning from the sight.

"Nope. I liked the gorillas and the pandas better." Carl stopped and grinned infectiously at Beth. She was so pretty there, standing in the sunshine. Carl wondered if she might like to be his girlfriend. Carl always had a girlfriend, or two. His mother called him a little Romeo.

"Me too. I wonder what happened to all the animals?" Beth smiled. For a little boy, Carl Grimes had a nice smile. She imagined he'd be quite handsome when he grew up. Too bad his name was Carl.

"Maybe we'll catch one of those, too!"

Boldly, Carl winked at Beth. The wink was not well received. Beth gave him her best 'you're scum' look and turned away.

"I'm not sure about all this, Carl." Stupid boys named Carl, or Karl, or anything with an 'arl' in it were not allowed to wink at her. She was an honor student, after all. And popular.

Carl was undeterred by Beth's sudden cold shoulder. He walked around to face her and ticked off his reasons using his fingers, one by one.

"Trust me. I know what I'm doing. Think about it. My dad is drugged out of his mind. Daryl's full of holes. He can barely move. Your dad's back is completely out. Glen is too busy playing kissy face with your sister to be much help. And your sister is a busybody, pimping out Carol."

"Carl!" Beth was shocked, but secretly delighted. She couldn't help but smile at the gossipy boy.

"Well, it's true. People think 'cause I'm young, I don't pay attention. But I see everything. Everything, bahhawhawhaw!" Carl rubbed his hands together and cackled.

"Stop it. That's just mean. Carol loves Daryl. Everybody knows it. Daryl is just too repressed to notice," she chided, amused. Too bad he was too young to flirt with. Beth missed flirting, too. She was really good with it.

"Too smart, you mean. Bad asses like Daryl and me are loners. We can't be tied down to one...stop laughing. I'm serious!" Carl was indignant.

"Oh, Carl. You _are_ young. You might be paying attention, but you don't know what it all means." _Silly boy_, she added in her mind.

"I'm almost as old as you," Carl challenged, drawing himself up to his tallest, possible height. He was almost as tall as Beth. Almost.

Beth responded by straightening her posture as well, showing Carl Grimes that she was, in fact, taller. "I'm sixteen. What are you, twelve? That's not the same at all," she smirked.

"Thirteen! I'm thirteen. A teen! As in, I'm a teen and you're a teen. It's the same." Carl made up his mind, then and there, that Beth would one day be his.

Beth chuckled and pushed playfully at Carl's shoulder. "Naw uh. I have a driver's license. That makes us different."

"Fat lot of good that does you now. I can drive, too." Carl pushed playfully back. _Oh yeah, she was gonna be his,_ Carl thought with a gleam in his eyes.

"I'm just sayin'" Beth forgot for a moment that Carl was 'Carl Grimes' and that he was younger than her. She reacted to his joking by considering the guy in front of her, twirling her hair with one finger.

"You'll change your mind one day when we're married."

Then the moment was over.

"Married?!" Beth was horrified.

"Of course, who do you think you're going to marry? I'm the natural choice." Carl oozed sincerity. That was scarier than flirting.

Beth scoffed and let go of her hair. "You're weird, Carl."

"See, you like me already! Now, what do you think?" Carl pointed to his adjusted loop snare.

"I think it either needs to be lower, or higher, unless you're anticipating an attack of midgets," she joked, putting a little distance between them.

"Good one!. I'll try it lower. Snap the feet. Hey, put your weight on the tree limb there. I need some more slack. More. Just a tiny bit more. Son of a bitch!" The bent branch snapped back and whipped them both hard.

"Carl! You can't talk like that. And you almost took out my eyes!" Beth wiped the bits of leaves out of her eyes and took a firm hold of Carl's head. He had a couple of scratches across one cheek.

Without thinking, Beth lifted the lower edge of her shirt and dabbed at the beads of blood, baring her white stomach. Carl froze while she did it. His stomach fluttered and he started stuttering, "Ssssorry sorry sorry." Carl pulled away embarrassed at his reaction and pulled the branch back down. "There. Now push down again. Perfect."

Carl and Beth stood back and admired their handiwork. Using a thin pine sapling, they had rigged up a snare on one of the obvious pathways through the woods into their camp. Carl bent and scattered a thin covering of leaves and dead grass around the rope loop.

"Think it will work?" Carl was all business now, cheeks flaming.

"Of course." Beth thought Carl's blush was endearing. Something made her ball up her fist and lightly punch his arm. "What's next?"

"Since you won't help me dig a pit trap, I have enough rope for; one..two..four.. six more snares." He held up a large coil of white rope, visually estimating it's length.

"Snazzy counting. Six? That's a lot." For some reason, Beth had to fight the urge to twirl her hair again.

"It's up to us to protect the camp. We'll be heroes. Maybe then you'll want to marry me." Carl gave Beth a grin.

"Like I said, you're weird, Carl."

"Thank you. I represent that comment."

"Sheesh!" Beth decided that maybe it might be fun to finish setting the snares with Carl. It wasn't until later that she realized that Carl was now just Carl in her mind. Sometime, in that long spring day, he stopped being 'Carl Grimes'.

Maggie settled on the ground next to Carol. Sitting on the camp chair, Hershel started to set out the items from the suture kit. Maggie knew from experience that it always took her father a couple of minutes to painstakingly check each item. He was a careful sort of practitioner.

"Hey, Carol." Maggie laid all the way on the ground so that her head was level with Carol's. "You won that bet, you know."

Carol just nodded. A tiny smile formed on her lips.

"How did you know?" Maggie was curious. Beyond Carol's prone form, she could see Daryl open his eyes just a sliver. The little faker! Maggie wondered just how much Daryl had seen already, thinking of the clothing change.

"How did I know I won?" Carol asked, confused. She knew she wasn't thinking clearly with the throbbing in her knee.

"No, how did you know what to bet?" Maggie smiled lightly. "The rest of us were laying bets on how long each of them would last and you go off and bet on how big his heart was." Maggie peeked another glance and see Daryl reaction. She was rewarded with a surprised look before he schooled his features blank again.

"I never thought of it like that, but I guess you're right," Carol mused. She propped herself up on her forearms and blocked Maggie's view of Daryl. "I knew what to bet because I've seen him do it again and again," she sighed, looking fondly at Daryl's quiet form.

"Forgive?" Maggie asked.

"No, blame himself." Carol laid her head back down on folded arms. "I knew that Daryl would blame himself for what happened. Forgiving Glen is a new part of his personality. A good one. A think _before_, he never had anyone around to forgive."

"Well, he does now," Maggie affirmed. "Easy Rider there, he's a good man to have around."

"I haven't thought of that movie in years," Carol smiled.

Hershel cleared his throat, interrupting. "Everything's ready. Maggie have you washed your hands?"

"All done." Maggie sat up cross legged, not using her hands to get up. "I just need some of that hand sanitizer." She took the small bottle from her father and rubbed some on her hands. Then she reached over and carefully folded back the blanket until most of Carol's thong clad behind was showing. Then she reached up and pulled up Carol's shirt and folded it under, midriff.

"This is going to be cold," she warned. Maggie deliberately squeezed out a generous stream of cold sanitizer on Carol's butt. Just as she planned, Carol gasped loudly. Beside her, Daryl's eyes popped open at the sound. _Gotcha_, Maggie thought as she slowly spread the gel making sure Daryl's eyes followed her hand movements.

"I think that's enough," Hershel said, reprovingly. He suspected what his eldest was up to, with a sharp look to those lying down. He'd hold his tongue for now, curious himself. He handed Maggie the threaded suture. "Make the stitches small, if you can."

"I'm on it, Daddy. Just like sewing a hem." Maggie leaned over and placed one palm steady on Carol's back. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Carol agreed. She took a deep breath and braced herself for the prick. When it came, hot and painful, she couldn't help but cry out a little.

"I'll be as quick as I can," Maggie soothed, while pushing the needle in again.

The stitches were unavoidable, Carol knew. She thought that maybe it would only hurt a little and she was determined to take them in silence. The truth surprised her. They hurt. A lot! She felt each stab of the needle followed by the sear of the thread being pulled through. Tears welled up in her eyes as she fought not to cry out again. By the third stitch, the tears were spilling down her cheeks with her repressed whimpers. Her body tense with anticipation of the next prick. Suddenly, an overly warm hand covered her own.

"Look at me. I gotcha."

Carol turned her watery eyes toward Daryl's blue ones. He was laying on his good side, one arm outreached to hold her hand. Carol unclenched her fist and turned it to cup his large,calloused one. At the fourth stitch, she squeezed with all her might.

"Thought those red panties were yours," Daryl distracted. "Most everything you've picked up lately is red. That your favorite color?"

"That and green," Carol blew through stitch five. "But these aren't mine."

"You're wearing 'em," Daryl drawled letting his eyes slide down.

"Daryl Dixon! You keep your eyes up here!" Carol gritted, pulling a little on his hand. "It was Maggie's idea." Above her, Maggie gave a little laugh.

"I always liked Farmer's Daughter." Daryl ignored Carol's plea and let his eyes linger a moment. Almost drowsily, he pulled eyes back up. Seeing Carol's confused face, he continued. "That's what Glen calls her behind her back."

"Walker Bait and the Farmer's Daughter," Carol mused. "Sounds like a raunchy joke." She broke off with a hiss as Maggie stabbed the needle a little harder than necessary.

"I know some dirty jokes," Daryl offered. "Wanna hear some?"

"Maybe later." Carol was not about to lie here, practically naked, and tell dirty jokes.

"Merle used to tell Mommy, Mommy jokes," Daryl offered instead. Carol noticed that everytime she winced, so did he. "Merle was one sick puppy."

"Mommy mommy?"

"I've heard some of those," Maggie said from above. "Twisted humor. I'm getting to the wide part. Carol could use a little distraction."

"That's Merle. Twisted." Daryl tightened his grip on Carol's hand. "Ok, here goes."

"Mommy, Mommy. My head hurts."

He looked at Carol expectantly. Maggie replied instead, "Shut up and come away from the dart board!"

"That's terrible," Carol groaned, biting her lip.

Daryl launched back in again. "Mommy, Mommy. Where did your scabs go?"

"Shut up and eat your corn flakes!" Maggie huffed. "I never liked corn flakes anyway. Here, let's see if you know this one. Mommy, Mommy. I'm getting dizzy."

"Shut up or I'll nail your other foot down!" Daryl snorted.

This time Carol laughed out loud, barely noticing the needle. "That is so wrong."

"Two more stitches and we're done," Maggie exclaimed. "Last joke I know - Mommy, Mommy. Daddy puked again."

"Shut up and get a fork before your brother eats all the big chunks!" Daryl gave a wide grin while Carol groaned. "Damn, that one was Merle's favorite. He said it every time we ate one of Meemaw's slop surprises. That woman was the worst cook."

"Meemaw?" Carol started to relax as Maggie called out 'all done'. Selfishly, she didn't let go of Daryl's hand. He didn't seem to notice that Maggie was finished.

"Meemaw was Daddy's mama. Me and Merle's grandma. Merle and I have different mamas. She died when I was seven." Daryl sighed. "Always liked her biscuits. I make mine like hers."

"I've had your biscuits. They're like hockey pucks," Carol smiled as she relaxed. Above her, Maggie started cleaning up as Hershel limped out of the tent.

"Yeah, great, huh?. Cracked a tooth on one, once. Gotta soak 'em in gravy, or hot chocolate, or beer." Daryl let go of Carol's hand, lost in thought. He shifted his weight a little so the blanket rode a little lower on his hips. It was almost indecent. It was Carol's turn to have a look long.

"Biscuits soaked in beer? Disgusting!" Carol reached over and tugged up the blanket a little, making Daryl start.

"Damn, woman! Your hands are cold. Keep 'em to yourself." Daryl flopped onto his back and then pulled up hissing.

"You need to lay on your stomach if you want to be flat," Carol said pulling on Daryl's hand a little. His skin was still very hot. "Didn't take some Tylenol? I don't think your fever is better at all." When Daryl didn't answer her, she grew suspicious. "You didn't take them, did you?" Daryl answered her by sliding his eyes away and studying the ceiling.

"Must have been one big damn spider to weave that web," he mused looking at Glen's rope ceiling support.

"Holy cow!"

T-Dog was back. Carol felt a stab of embarrassment at her state of undress. She craned her neck to look behind her. T-Dog's mouth was open with amazement. A second later, Glen entered from behind T-Dog, staring at a handful of parts in his hands.

"Lori broke the can opener. Again! Gotta do a run..." Glen look up and trailed off, taking in the scene. "Uh, Carol. Do you know your..." Glen just couldn't get word out. He drew an invisible hump with his hands, over and over. "Exposed. It's exposed," he finished lamely. Beside him T-Dog snorted violently. Glen narrowed his eyes and really stared. "Are those..." Glen whipped around looking for Maggie. When he didn't see her, he stormed out. T-Dog laughed louder.

Carol dropped her head in humiliation at having been caught by Glen at wearing Maggie's thong underwear. Worse, T-Dog appeared to be glued to the sight of her bare behind. Carol wondered what else could possibly go wrong. It wasn't even dinner time yet.

"What the hell are you looking at!"

Carol really shouldn't tempt fate by asking the universe stupid questions.

"Looks to me like a post-apocalyptic scene from Romeo and Juliette. Damn! You should see the two of you. Better yet, who's got a camera?" T-Dog chuckled, unaware of his peril.

"You best shut the hell up!"

Carol look up to see a red-faced Daryl struggling to get up. His leg had stiffened up so much he couldn't get it to bend. She reached over and snagged one of his arms to hold him still.

"Chill, Dixon. I didn't mean anything by it. I came in here to apologize." T-Dog rushed over and tried to get a belligerent Daryl to lie back down. He deftly dodged Daryl's wild blows with his one free arm.

Hershel limped in bellowing, "Have you people lost your minds?"

Carol hung onto Daryl's whipcord hard arm, straining to keep him from taking a better swing at T-Dog. She quietly cursed Maggie's matchmaking manipulations while yelling at Rick to wake up and help her. Of course, the man was actually deeply asleep this time, heavily drugged by the Benadryl. She was considering crawling across the small space separating her from Daryl and using her weight to lay across his back when Daryl suddenly stopped moving and gave an angry growl.

Everybody froze.

Breathing hard, Daryl forcefully yanked his arm away from Carol and used it to push himself up on one knee, wounded leg still stiff and straight. He reached over and yanked one of the rope ties Glen had knotted low around a supporting tree trunk.

The rope unwound with a zipping zing. Carol watched in awe as Glen's carefully woven web of rope unraveled one junction at a time, at lightning speed. It was like watching one of those crazy time-lapse movies. As quickly as it started, the rope furled to the ground, one instant before the entire tent collapsed down on top of all of them in a billowing cloud of nylon.

Carol had her third perfect moment that day when a lot of things happened, all at once. She fought down slightly hysterical laughter at the absurdity of lying under the settling tent. Beside her, she felt Daryl fall heavily back down onto the blanket wanting to know where the hell his pants were. T-Dog tripped over the folded camp chair and landed on Rick with a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. Rick groggily asked for just another hour of sleep. Hershel went down on his knees. Carol thought she could feel him crawl out of the fallen tent, but she couldn't be sure.

Muffled, just outside the tent she could hear Carl exclaim.

"Hey, where did everybody go?"

_tbc..._

_**AN: **__I hope everyone enjoyed this little update. It seems to me that they are trying to pair up Carl and Beth in the show. Nice concept, but Chandler Riggs seems just a little young to make this believable. I thought to bridge the age difference just a bit. Drop me a line and let me know what you think. I'll be camping for Veteran's Day getting more ideas!. Thanks! Surplus_


	7. Redneck Jacuzzi

_**Disclaimer: ** See chapter 1._

**Redneck Jacuzzi**

Glen tore out of the tent looking for his scheming girlfriend. His face was still burning from T-Dog's delighted snickers. He had given that red thong to Maggie, and Maggie alone. When he spotted her innocently helping Lori tote a full cast iron kettle over to the fire, he stormed over to give her a piece of his mind.

"Don't you come stomping over here."

Maggie stopped him cold with a no-nonsense look. It was the kind of look that promised a frigid night alone on the couch with only the dog for comfort. If they had a couch, or a dog. Since they didn't, her look promised a long and lonely night. Glen slowed and simmered. _Not fair, not fair, not fair!_ he thought, still giving in. He stopped stomping and came forward at a deliberately reasonable pace. Lori hid a smile behind one hand and scuttled off with a smirk.

"Somethin' on your mind, Hot Stuff?" Maggie asked coolly. She finished settling the kettle on the hot coals and then crossed her arms in front, tossing her hair from her face.

Glen felt his nether regions shrivel at her challenging gaze. He steeled himself and blurted, "That's my red thong!" He tried to look intimidating, but failed miserably.

"That so?" Maggie raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "You wearing it now?"

"What? No!" Glen hissed. "You know what I mean! Why is Carol wearing it? I got it for you." He ran his hand nervously through his hair wondering how come he was the one justifying things. He was angry, damn it! He needed to look angry. No more pushover Glen.

"Oh, that," Maggie looked anything but terrorized. She knew if she looked at him just right, Glen would start to squirm. He was a bug under her magnifying glass.

Glen started to squirm.

_Bingo. _Maggie's lips curled slightly in triumph.

"I risked death and walkers and..and.._crap_, to get those for you." Glen hated how whiney his voice got when he confronted Maggie. His armpits started to sweat. "I didn't risk all that for Carol."

"True," Maggie replied, biting her bottom lip in a seductive way. "But I didn't need them anymore." There was no way she would let Glen mess up the best entertainment she had come up with in months.

Glen had stopped squirming, eyes glued to her bottom lip. "Why not?" he asked huskily. He knew he was being manipulated, but didn't care. Maggie was the most infuriating, most intense tease he had ever been around. _And he loved it._

"Cause I decided that I didn't need underwear." She sidled up to Glen and sucked one earlobe into her mouth, smiling at his responsive groan. "At all."

Just as Glen started to slide his hand silkily down the back of Maggie's pant to check the truth of that statement, he pulled his head away at a sharp pain in his ear. Maggie had bit him. Hard!

"The hell?" he asked, stunned. He touched his earlobe to see if she had drawn blood when Maggie spun him around to face the tent. Glen's one hand still tangled in her waistband.

"Look!"

Glen watched in disbelief as the tent went down in a cloud of nylon. He could see shapes moving under the fabric and hear muffled curses. He couldn't really tell which moving lump was who. Maggie started laughing beside him when Beth and Carl walked up.

"Hey, where did everyone go?" Carl asked, confused. Beth just tapped his arm and pointed downward. "Cool," Carl proclaimed happily, running over to the edge to the fallen tent. Just as he was pulling up a part to crawl under himself, Hershel emerged on all fours, white hair completely disheveled.

Hershel blinked a moment, getting his bearings, while Glen and Maggie rushed to help him to his feet. He accepted their help gratefully, limping heavily on the way to a waiting camp stool. Once he settled his tired, overused body down with a thump, he snatched Glen's arm with a steel grip and pulled him close. Glen looked apprehensive at the unexpected move.

"I may be old, but my vision's just fine," Hershel hauled Glen's arm down so they were eye to eye. "I catch you with your hand down my daughter's pants in public like that again, I'll take it off at the nearest joint. Get me?" Hershel threatened.

"Daddy!" Maggie pulled Glen's arm away. "It's not like we don't share a bed each night."

"What you do under the privacy of covers is your business. I'll not have you making out like a couple of hormonal teenagers in front of the others, not to mention Beth and Carl." When Maggie rolled her eyes in that annoying way she had since puberty, Hershel settled in for one of his long-form lectures on morality, when he was interrupted by what looked like a hand flailing about under the nylon trying to get someone's attention.

Relieved, Glen and Maggie jumped to help the mystery hand. It turned out to be Carol. When they managed to get her free of the tent, Carl took the opportunity to dive in. He wiggled his way into the fray like a mole.

"Sorry to interrupt," Carol gasped as Glen pulled her up. "It's hard to breath under there. I think T-Dog is completely tangled up and I think he's lying on top of Rick."

Maggie shouldered Carol's arm for the second time that day as Glen started folding back the tent. "I think Rick is still asleep, if you can believe it. Daryl was hollering up a storm about his pants, but he's completely quiet now. I couldn't find him under the fabric. I'm worried something is wrong." Carol used her free arm to keep her own tattered pants up while balancing on her one good leg. "I'm sure we are all going to look back at this and laugh one day."

"Hell, I'm laughing now," Maggie said with an indescribable look on her face.

"Found T-Dog and Rick," Glen proclaimed. Heaving and pulling, he unrolled T-Dog's tangled form out onto the uncovered dirt. T-Dog was holding both hands over his nose.

"You okay," Carol called, concerned.

"Thkmanossbroken," came his muffled reply.

"Say again," Maggie asked, helping Carol to hop closer to T-Dog's fallen form.

T-Dog removed his hands and sighed wetly. Blood was streaming from both nostrils. "I thank I bwoke ma nose," he tried to say clearly. "Wurts lak hell."

Both women stiffled a laugh. Maggie looked around for a place for Carol to sit on, but couldn't find anywhere other than the chair her angry father was using. Biting the inside of her cheek, Maggie helped Carol over to her father and sat her on his knee.

"It's just until I get the other chair out of the tent," she promised, trying not to snicker. Carol looked nonplussed as she settled, but her father was shocked. He sat as straight as his could and tried to figure out where to put his hands.

"Could use some help here," Glen called. "I can't get Rick free."

Maggie rushed over and helped T-Dog to his feet. Amazingly, the man blew out a tremendous wad of bloody phlegm on the ground and turned to help Glen. "Nuddin wong wid ma hens," he stated to Maggie's protest that he should sit down a minute. Maggie stared at him blankly while her brain translated broke-nose speech; _nothing wrong with my hands_. Go Dog!

T-Dog helped Glen pick up a wad of tent nylon and shake something loose. Carol cried out for them to be careful. People were injured in there. Both men ignored her as Carl shook loose with a plop.

"Quit it," Carl fussed. "I almost had my Dad unwrapped." Carl hopped to his feet and started to tugging at the fabric. Underneath, he revealed a groggy Rick blinking at the sunlight.

"Is it my watch already?" he asked with a yawn. The swelling on his neck was nearly back to normal.

"Where's Daryl?" Carol asked. "He was lying next to Rick."

T-Dog grasped Rick under the arms and drug him clear of the tent while Glen rooted around in the remaining pile. Carol's anxiety ratcheted up every moment they couldn't find him. What if he was unconscious? What if he was suffocating? What if he was dying?

"He's not here," Glen proclaimed with a huff. "Where the hell did he go?"

Carol felt her blood pressure boil as she realized what had just happened. Missing? No, the little shit collapsed the tent to get away! In her mind, she could hear him braying about her mental potty mouth.

Everyone looked around like Daryl would suddenly appear out of thin air. Carol sputtered in exasperation. "Obviously he's missing! He's hurt and feverish and acting weird. Go find him!" Everyone just stared at her for a moment, not sure where to start looking. Carol gritted her teeth and yelled, "Fetch!"

And they went, scattered all in different directions. Carol sat on Hershel's knee and fumed because she couldn't join in the search. Even basketball sized Lori was looking.

"You know he's going to be fine," Hershel attempted to soothe, a little disturbed by Carol's unexpected ire. "Never saw a man more able to take care of himself."

"He's doing a bang up job today," Carol all but screeched. "If he's not fine, I'm going to kill him!"

"He'll be fine." Hershel patted Carol's good knee and gently helped her to rise and take his place on the chair. He shuffled over to his medical bag and pulled out a thick Ace bandage and a package of gauze. "Might as well finish up with you, before they bring him back." With deft fingers, Hershel taped a pad and gauze across the newly stitched wound and started to wrap Carol's bad knee. When he grunted in pain from his bent position, Carol took the ace bandage from him and finished it herself. It was good to focus on something productive and try to calm herself down.

"I've had lots of practice over the years. I can do it," she said with forced evenness. She bit back her grunts and winces, trying not to let her own pain show. She didn't want Hershel distracted by her silly injuries if Daryl came back in worse shape.

"You seem to have a knack for that," Hershel approved. "Would you consider letting me teach you a thing, or two? It wouldn't hurt to have someone to share the task of keeping this group in one piece."

Carol was surprised and said so. "But Maggie did great stitching me up. She's already a help to you."

Hershel just sighed. "Only because she had some secret, matchmaking agenda today. I could use someone a little more.." Hershel searched for the right word.

"Mature?" Carol smiled and fingered her graying hair.

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'steady'. I think you would be a natural," Hershel declared thinking that Carol was awfully young compared to himself. Mature, indeed!

Carol just blushed. She was unused to praise. It made her a little uncomfortable. But if Hershel thought she could do it, she just might try. Right after she killed Daryl Dixon!

Daryl knew something was wrong. It was like something was missing, or there was something he forgot to do. He just wasn't sure what it might be. His head was cloudy, his thinking fogged. His leg and ass were killing him, but he couldn't remember why.

What the hell was he supposed to be doing? He knew he was high-tailing it away from somewhere, but couldn't remember where he was going.

Daryl stopped a minute and regrouped. It's not like he hadn't gotten lost in his own head before.

Once, he drove his truck all the way from his little ramshackle house to Bulioxi, Mississippi without realizing he was doing it. He was thinking hard about the complicated layout of the Grand Casino he had been hired to implode. That drive took hours. When he absentmindedly pulled up in the parking lot next to Merle's motorcycle, he remembered wondering where the heck he was. Merle just handed him a thermos filled with hot Irish coffee and steered him toward the explosives trailer, like he was expecting his little brother to be a bit soft in the head. Merle always did treat him like he was a little bit stupid.

Hell if Daryl could remember where he was going.

Guessed that Merle was right, he was a little bit stupid. Daryl paused a second. The word 'stupid' kept ringing in his ears. No, he wasn't stupid, it was T-Dog. Daryl attempted to snap his fingers, but failed to make a sound. He remembered saying that T-Dog was stupid. Hey, he remembered something!

Daryl gave up on trying to snap his fingers, which didn't work for some reason, and settled for slapping his leg.

Well, would you look at that? He didn't have on any pants!

Daryl frowned at his unclad lower half. Why the hell would he forget to put on his pants? He didn't even have on any underwear. Daryl looked up and turned in a slow, shifty circle. Was this Mexico?

Another time, Daryl let Merle talk him into doing tequila shots in a little dive outside of El Paso. He woke up, completely naked, in a cornfield ten miles south of the border. Juarez was no place for a naked gringo. This didn't look like Juarez. This looked like Georgia. Besides, Merle wouldn't have let him keep his shirt.

Daryl stumbled on a bit, trying to remember. He came across a low-set, rope snare thinly disguised with leaves. Something about the snare wasn't quite right. Daryl stopped and adjusted the tension. That was better. He covered the rope some more and carefully stepped around it.

An image of teaching Carl to set snares flicked into his foggy mind. Daryl looked around for Carl, but couldn't find the kid. He had a birthday present for him, stowed away in his motorcycle panniers. Daryl didn't know when the boy's birthday was. He kept meaning to ask Lori.

That's when Daryl noticed a second snare. This one was set too high. It wouldn't catch anything useful, like rabbits or possums. Daryl stopped to fix it, too. Then he saw another. Before long, Daryl had restrung and reset five snares. Carl needed another lesson in snare setting.

Daryl started looking around for Carl when he heard the normal low spitting snarl of a walker. Instantly on alert, Daryl felt around his only piece of clothing and found a switchblade knife in the pocket. It was better than nothing. He flicked the blade open and limped on looking for the source of the sound.

In a sixth, perfectly hung snare, dangled a walker leg streaming black blood. On the ground was the rest of the walker. The snare had caught the geek by one foot and ripped it right off. Just like a undead Daddy Longlegs with one limb pulled off, the dangling foot and leg still twitched. Daryl curled his lip in disgust even as he carefully plunged his blade through the eye socket.

Okay, so maybe Carl didn't need another lesson. He just needed more practice. Daryl considered taking the walker's pants, but decided he wasn't that desperate. He was supposed to get rid of his stink, not make himself more stinky.

Bath! He was supposed to take a bath! Daryl slapped himself in the head. Finally he remembered. Carol said he stank and he said he would take a bath. Relieved that he had a goal after all, Daryl limped toward the sound of a babbling brook.

The brook gurgled with its spring fed waters. It flowed in long curvy zig-zags through the winter bare brush. Here and there, the water burbled over fallen limbs creating tiny waterfalls. The water looked deep enough for a decent bath and the rushing water looked inviting. Kinda like a redneck jacuzzi. Daryl wondered if it was really cold. He went to dip in one toe to test the temperature when he realized his boots were still on.

Daryl spent a minute pondering why he was wearing laced up boots, but no pants. The combination seemed so unlikely. With a shrug, he decided that it must not be important.

He took off his one decent long-sleeved shirt he was wearing and carefully folded it up. He then reached over to unlace his boots. The movement caused a hot stab of pain down the back of his leg. Daryl flinched, overbalanced and tipped, ass over teakettle, right into the water.

"Jesus H Roosevelt Christ!" Daryl sputtered when he came up for air. The water was frigidly cold! When he stood up, the water came up to mid-thigh. Submerged, he felt his boots completely fill with icy water. It was going to take days for them to dry out. Daryl shook his head like a dog, flinging the water from his ears. He hated it when water got stuck in his ears.

"There you are!"

Daryl turned to see Lori come through the brush. He wondered why she looked so flustered. She and Rick must have been going at it again, he decided.

"What on earth are you doing?" Lori puffed to a stop at the water's edge. She braced her fists on each hip and gave him a reproving glare.

"I'm taking a bath. Can't you see?" Daryl wondered why everyone seemed just a little stupid today. Must be Stupid Day.

"Oh, I see plenty," Lori smirked.

Daryl sank down in the water, covering himself. This was just embarrassing. "Don't you people have any concept of privacy?" Daryl's growl turned into a shiver. "Damn, this water's cold," he muttered.

Lori turned her head and called out. "I found him. He's okay." She gave Daryl a scrutinizing look. "You seem more lucid. Is that cold water clearing your head?" Lori reached out to feel Daryl's forehead, but he just pushed away deeper into the stream.

"Quit!" Why wouldn't these people just leave him alone!

"If you don't come right back here and let me feel your forehead, I'm going to come right in that water with you," she threatened with her best mother's voice while pointing a stern finger at the edge of the brook. When Daryl opened his mouth to protest, she gave him the evil eye. "And don't you even think about cursing at me."

_Damn, but she had an intimidating glare,_ Daryl thought letting the curse die on his tongue.

They both glared at each other while Daryl considered his options. Really, there were none. Sighing in defeat, Daryl crab crawled over to Lori's side of the stream being careful not to expose himself. He submitted to the forehead feel with poor grace.

"You're still pretty hot, Daryl. No wonder you are acting like this," Lori mused. "Since you are already in there, maybe we should just let the water cool that fever down." With that, Lori settled herself down cross legged, rubbing her belly in circles. "I'll just keep you company."

"I don't want you here," Daryl complained. His teeth were starting to chatter. The chill was getting to him. He shifted in the water uncomfortably. The muddy bottom was rubbing his sore spots wrong.

"Too bad," Lori dismissed his anger with a flick of her hand.

Just then, Carl came pelting through the bushes. He slid to a stop with a loud, "Whoa!"

"Carl, I need you to bring me some soap, a towel and some of Daryl's clothes. I think Carol might have his pants," she told Carl's giggling form. "If you don't stop laughing at poor Daryl here, I'll make you take a bath, too."

That got Carl's attention. No way he wanted a bath in that cold stream. He stopped the snickering. "You okay?" he asked Daryl sincerely,

"Been better," Daryl replied honestly, pulling some weeds out of his scraggly beard. "What was the count?"

"Oh," Carl brightened. "Two hundred and six. You won the bet." He didn't look sorry that he lost.

"Same as the number of bones in a human body." Daryl looked thoughtful. "I'm really glad you didn't win that bet. Two hundred and six sure hurt like a 'sum bitch. Can't imagine a thousand."

"Me either. I hurt just watching you," Carl vowed. "Hey, do you want me to be get your Twinkie? You won it, fair and square."

Damn, if the kid didn't smile when he said it. Daryl didn't know what was more disturbing, sitting naked in a stream next to Carl and Lori, or dealing with the open kindness of these people. He wasn't sure how to handle it.

"Passed your snares," Daryl countered. "Had to fix a couple of them, but the last one worked just fine. You caught yourself a walker." Daryl cast a sidelong glance at Lori to make sure she wasn't getting ready to swat either him or Carl. "You did good," he finished.

Carl straightened his shoulders up and looked smugly proud. Daryl noticed that Carl didn't seem worried that his mom was gonna pop him one. So he relaxed too.

"What about the Twinkie?" Carl asked again.

"Maybe later, when Daryl's dry," Lori answered for him. "Don't forget to bring a shirt, too."

"I can just wear the one I just took off," Daryl pointed at his neatly folded shirt on the ground.

Lori's lip curled when she looked at the garment. With a flick of her wrist, the shirt landed in the water. "Oops,"

"You did that on purpose," Daryl accused without heat. Carl snickered again.

Lori ignored the accusation. "Do you have a clean shirt, or do I need ask someone else for one," she asked reasonably.

"There should be a couple on my bike." Daryl picked up his now waterlogged shirt. "Look in the right side bag. I have something for you in the other. No peeking."

"Hey, my birthday is coming up," Carl grinned. "What'd you get me?"

"Vamoose," Lori scolded. "And send back T-Dog to help me get him back to camp." Carl tore off in the same fashion he had arrived.

Daryl shifted uncomfortably in the water waiting for Lori to yell at him some more. After a few seconds, he realized that she wasn't mad. He glanced up at her. She was sitting with her eyes closed, both hands folded over the same spot on her big belly.

"Everything okay?" he asked. He was concerned that she was sitting so still.

Lori smiled, but didn't open her eyes. "Baby's kicking," she explained.

"Can...can I...feel?" Daryl faltered, fully expecting to get smacked for his forward question.

Lori didn't answer, but opened her eyes and grabbed at Daryl's extended hand. She tugged him closer and placed his hand on her stomach. She then covered his hand with hers.

Daryl felt a thump. And then another. Then something that moved under the skin pushing against his hand. Mesmerized, Daryl moved his hand to follow the movement.

"Didn't expect it to be so strong. Does it hurt?" Daryl was curious.

"Not at all," Lori assured him. "Although sometimes I think the little monster kicks me in the bladder on purpose,"

Daryl snorted in reply. "I can't imagine being lucky enough to have one of these of my own. You and Rick are lucky."

Lori smiled sadly. "We're all blessed. This baby belongs to all of us." Lori let go of her stomach and felt Daryl's head again. "This baby belongs to you, too Daryl."

_Mine, too_ Daryl thought wistfully, letting go.

"The water is helping, your fever has dropped. We better get you out before you take a chill." Lori climbed laboriously to her feet. Suddenly serious, Lori ran her hands through her long hair. "I'm counting on you when the baby comes. This little one is going to need all his or her uncles and aunts."

"Rick will come around," Daryl said quietly. "You'll see."

In his mind, he tried out _Uncle Daryl_ and liked it just fine. _Uncle Daryl. _

Lori blinked away the moisture of tears from Daryl's concern. When Carol had told her how insightful and well, thoughtful, Daryl had been to her while Sophia was missing, Lori had refused to believe anything good of the angry Dixon. Now, she was beginning to understand how wrong she had been.

"I'd better check on Carl and your clothes. You never know with that boy. I'll send T-Dog back out to help." Lori smiled at Daryl's nod of acknowledgement. "You okay to get out by yourself?"

"Hell, Lori. If I ain't, I'm not about to tell you," Daryl said cocking his wet head. "Now, I could use some privacy."

"Of course," Lori turned her back to Daryl and started moving away. She could hear some huge splashes of water and a muffled curse. She stopped and turned back around catching Daryl attempting to hop up the stream bank on one leg. "Should I be afraid of what you have for Carl in your bag?"

Caught by surprise, Daryl fell back into the water with a huge sploosh. He slapped the water in frustration. Giving up, he lay back in the water and let his upper body float. "I picked up a decent slingshot a while back. Thought it would be something to the boy could use to work on his aim and build up his arm."

"Slingshot, huh? Sounds like it a great way to hunt squirrels." Lori agreed privately relieved it wasn't more deadly. "Thanks Daryl." She meant more than just the slingshot.

"You can thank me by going away!" Daryl slapped the water again, harder.

Lori made her way back to camp listening to the sounds of Daryl throwing a small fit while trying to get himself out of the creek.

"Glad you're feeling better," she called back without looking, soothed by the reassuring sounds of the angry redneck.

Carl bypassed the center of camp after admiring the walker in his snare. He had successfully protected the camp. He couldn't wait to tell Beth.

Rounding the camp, Carl walked up to Daryl motorcycle. Since no one was looking, he climbed on and pretended to drive it around, complete with mimicked engine sounds. After a minute, he climbed off and opened the nearest pannier. Daryl had said to look in the right side back, but Carl didn't know if that meant the right side while standing behind the bike, or while on the seat. Carl figured he'd just look in both until he found what he was looking for, hopefully after he discovered what Daryl had for him as a present first.

"Crap," he muttered. He found a shirt right on top. That wasn't fair. He didn't get to snoop at all. When he lifted the shirt out he saw a magazine peeking out from underneath. Maybe that was his present. Carl looked both ways to make sure he was totally alone, then eased the magazine out of the bag.

"Hustler," he read.

There was a picture of a big chested blonde wearing a revealing bathing suit on the cover. Carl felt his pulse quicken when he realized just what he had in his hand. He was pretty sure that this wasn't his present. Carl sat on the motorcycle seat and flipped through the pages, engrossed and sometimes grossed out. He flipped and muttered to himself.

"Holy smokes!"

"Eww. That's disgusting."

"I don't think she's a natural blonde at all."

"Carl!"

Carl looked up startled, directly into the face of his angry mother. She had obviously seen what he was reading, a dirty magazine.

Carl fell off the other side of the bike in a panic and flung the Hustler into the bushes, like that would hide anything. Then he dove for cover only to run directly into Beth knocking them both over.

Busted, Carl laid dejectedly in the dirt while his mother lectured him on appropriate behavior and his would-be girlfriend retrieved the printed contraband. With his luck, the earth would just open up and swallow him whole.

Carol was ready to find a something to use as a crutch and go find Daryl herself when the man came limping back on his own, dripping wet, his sodden shirt wrapped around his waist. Carol could see that his lips were blue and he was shivering violently as he made his way around the pile of fallen tent.

"What happened," she asked snagging a blanket at her feet and holding it out matador style. She gave the blanket a little shake.

"Fell in the creek and Lori made me stay there," Daryl grumbled reaching for the blanket and wrapping it around himself. He looked miserably at the camp chair next to Carol and then at the ground. Neither option was appealing. He felt completely horrible; old, achy and very, very sore.

Carol understood that look immediately. She beckoned Daryl over with a crooked finger.

"Well, you did promise me you'd take a bath,"

Reaching out in a no-nonsense manner before Daryl could pull away, Carol opened the blanket and unwrapped the sodden shirt. The quickly pulled it away and wrapped the blanket back keeping everything covered. She then pointed at blanket still lying on the ground next to Rick's still sleeping form.

Daryl rolled his eyes and muttered something about bossy women, but obediently hobbled over to the blanket and managed with great effort to lie down on his good side.

"Did you fall in the creek with your boots on?" Carol asked as she scooted the chair closer to Daryl inch by inch.

"Yep, I have the worst damn luck," Daryl chattered with cold.

"Why don't you take them off? I'll see if I can find you some socks," Carol wondered if Daryl would object to wearing a pair of her socks. She had some that might fit his big feet.

"Can't bend that way. Hurts too much." Daryl pulled the blanket up over around his ears. "I fell in trying to get them off in the first place." Daryl yawned between shivers. "God, I'm tired."

"Then sleep," Carol suggested. "I've got watch." She lowered herself carefully to the ground and started unlacing his boots.

"Can't sleep now. If I do, I'll be up all night," he said sleepily, eyes already half-mast.

"I seriously doubt that." Carol tugged off the boots, deftly keeping the captured water from soaking the blanket. "If you can't sleep later, I'll stay up and keep you company."

Carol stretched a little and managed to snag her bag. She pulled out a small hand towel and used it to dry off Daryl's feet. Then she pulled out her fuzziest, warmest pair of socks.

"Promise?" Daryl asked, half asleep.

"Cross my heart," Carol answered, tugging a pair of fuzzy purple socks with big pink hearts onto Darryl's cold feet.

The only answer was a little snore.

tbc...

_**AN:** The implosion of the Biloxi Grand Casino and the Atlanta Roosevelt House are available on YouTube. It's worth taking a look._

_In the Season 3 opener, I watched Daryl touch Lori's arm in greeting. I thought it was odd until I notice him touching everyone. Such a change from Season 2. After the last episode, I wanted to get Daryl more invested in Lori's pregnancy. I hope I succeeded. _

_I hope you all enjoyed yourself. Drop me a line and let me know how much._

_Thanks! _

_Surplus Imagination_


	8. Starry Night

**_Disclaimer: See chapter 1_.**

**Starry Night**

When Daryl woke it was to a blanket of stars.

That in itself was confusing because he remembered Carl telling everyone that it was a full moon. Daryl lay looking up at the vast expanse of starry night and let the inky blackness pour through mind helping him to map this point in time.

If it was truly a night for a full moon, then it must be very late, after moonrise and moonset. It had been late afternoon, before dinner time, that Daryl fell asleep. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept so much at one time. His head was heavy, stuffed with straw. He must have slept too long.

He also wondered why he opened his eyes to the stars considering his hindquarters were mincemeat. He should be laying on his stomach, not on his back. Daryl tentatively moved his bad leg a little and discovered that he wasn't really on his back, He was wedged up on a pile of cloth, everywhere but where the wounds were. Towels maybe?

And he was toasty warm despite the fact that he could see his breath in the frosty air. Based on the weight of the blankets covering him, there were at least two of them. Daryl felt a pang of guilt. The group didn't have so many blankets right now that Daryl could have more than one. Someone must have gone without. Probably the person on watch.

Daryl moved his head toward the glow of the firelight wondering who that might be. His neck snapped, crackled and popped painfully, kinda like a mean bowl of rice krispies and milk. He couldn't help the involuntary flinch and gasp that accompanied the movement.

That's when the blankets moved. Daryl froze with acute awareness that he was not alone under the covers. Holy hell! He was pretty damn sure he was naked to boot. At least, he was certain he had fallen asleep naked as a jaybird, after his cold water bath in the creek. Carl had never reappeared with his dry clothes after Lori had finally left him the hell alone.

Daryl tried not to hyperventilate, eyes tightly shut, as he silently willed whoever was invading his space to stay asleep. It could only be one of two people; Carl, because the kid never recognized anyone's boundaries, or Carol, because she was forever pushing his boundary. The woman was relentless in her pursuits.

The movement under the blanket took shape as whoever the hell it was, rolled over and snuggled up against his good side. Daryl's eyes popped open as his entire body tingled with the anticipation of skin-on-skin contact. He waited and waited and waited, but nothing happened. When the lump at his side started snoring, Daryl finally relaxed. Whew! Close call. He had the opportunity to get out of this situation before anything else embarrassed him. It had been a hell of a day so far.

Daryl let out a plume of white breath as he heaved a sigh of relief. With utmost care, he managed to free one arm and carefully peeled back the top blanket, exposing his human leech. A crown of wild, silver hair emerged gleaming dully in the reflected firelight. Carol. Of course it was Carol. Daryl carefully freed Carol's face so that she could breathe easier. She must have been suffocating buried deep in their shared blankets. When Daryl had gently pulled back the heavy cloth, Carol's eyebrows furled in unconscious consternation at the change of temperature. Daryl quickly pulled the blanket back up enfolding most, but not all of her head. She must like the added warmth, he decided.

Daryl remembered an old tick bloodhound he had as kid. The one Merle used to nickname Old Yeller, after that hound in the Disney movie long ago. Daryl never was one to name things. He just called him Big Dog. It was descriptive and simple. Daryl liked simple.

Big Dog liked to sleep with Daryl. Used to burrow down in the covers and sleep at Daryl's feet curled up in a big ball. Daryl liked it because it made his bed warm. The fleas didn't bother him too much. The room he and Merle shared really didn't have any heat. During the cold Georgia winters, Daryl would go to bed wearing most all of his clothes at one time, his sock feet resting against Big Dog's warm body.

Damn, he hadn't thought about Big Dog in years. Maybe it was because he was feeling so warm at the moment. Daryl studied Carol's sleeping face as it peaked out of the blankets. It was a nice face. Things were easier when she wasn't awake. Daryl didn't know how to act around her most times. His scars were on the inside as well as the outside. Daryl was pretty sure he was damaged past repair. He didn't understand why Carol didn't know he was a lost cause.

On an impulse, Daryl moved his good foot over toward Carol's legs to rest them against her warm body, just like he used to do with Big Dog. He didn't dare move the bad leg. So far, that limb wasn't kicking up a fuss and he had no intention of waking that pain up. Smooth as silk, he angled his toes for a touchdown but discovered something was blocking him from feeling Carol's legs.

He was wearing socks! Really weird feeling socks. Kinda fluffy. Not like cotton ones. Definitely not like his favorite red-toed work boot socks, all sturdy wool, double thick. He'd give his right nut for a pair of those again. They'd last the apocalypse and still be good enough to hand down to Carl someday! No, these were silky soft.

Daryl frowned thoughtfully and he rubbed his fluffy, silky sock foot against Carol's lower leg testing out the texture. If he was wearing socks, what else was he wearing? It was too dark to peek under the blankets, so Daryl snaked his free arm down in the covers and worked his way in.

Felt like he was still cocooned in his own blanket, under the one shared with Carol. Inside the cocoon, he felt bare chest and then soft cotton. Boxers, he was wearing those blue boxers. Below the boxers he felt gauze and bandages. He couldn't reach any further than that.

When the hell did he get patched up? Daryl remembered falling asleep and that was it. Good Lord! He was starting to feel a little violated. It was time for him to get some distance on this whole situation for it all closed on him again.

Daryl flung back the blanket on his side and started to lever himself up. Carol made a sound of protest in her sleep and latched onto his arm. Daryl quietly panicked as she pulled herself half up on his chest making him lie back down against the bigger fear of waking her. To make matters worse, Carol flung her leg across him scoring a direct hit on his overfull bladder. Daryl felt his eyes cross behind closed lids as he struggled to control all the sensations. He couldn't help the groan.

"Hey! Don't wake her. I just got her to go to sleep."

Daryl cracked one eye to take in Glen's silhouette. The younger man's outline wavered in the firelight to the rhythm of the flames. A pop of embers exploded making it look like sparks were shooting from Glen's head.

"You okay, man?"

So many things could come pouring out of his mouth right then, but Daryl picked the safest one. "Gotta piss," he croaked.

"Let me move her first," Glen whispered as he crouched and carefully pried Carol's sleeping form from Daryl's torso, settling her back on the ground. Daryl fought down a surge of unexpected jealousy at the way Glen touched Carol. What the hell was wrong with him? Jealousy? Really? Daryl slapped a lid on that feelings box as he tucked the blanket around Carol again. He made sure her head was well covered only exposing her face.

When he was done, Glen extended a hand to help Daryl up. Forearms clasped, it took all of Glen's strength to get Daryl to his feet. .

"Christ, I'm all stove up," Daryl gritted as he tried to keep his feet under him. If Glen wasn't there, he'd fall right back down again.

"Here, lean on me," Glen offered. "Just don't step on Carol."

"I ain't gonna step on Carol," Daryl complained while worrying that he was indeed going to step on Carol. "Where's my boots?"

"They're still wet. Carol stuffed them full of newspaper earlier. I was supposed to change the stuffing at shift change. I forgot."

Daryl could feel Glen wince at the admission. "Not your fault they got wet. Not your job to dry them up." Daryl dismissed Glen's concern instantly. "I can wear them wet."

"And risk the wrath of Carol? Hell, no," Glen exclaimed. "Lori gave me Rick's sandals for you to wear for now."

"Rick's got the biggest feet of all of us. They're like damn ski boats. I can't wear those." Daryl lost his balance a bit and nearly landed on Carol's sleeping form. Glen caught him with a grunt and then levered one arm over his shoulder.

"They're open backed," Glen strained. "They'll fit." Glen helped Daryl hobble over to lean on the truck hood. Glen fetched a pile of clothes and shoes and brought it back. Daryl was carefully flexing his leg at the knee with a drawn expression on his face.

"What does 'stove up' mean," Glen asked handing Daryl a pair of thong sandals. "Put these on and you can dress by the fire. It's warmer."

Daryl dropped the flip flops onto the ground and toed the bad leg in. The socks on his feet refused to allow the flimsy shoes to settle the thong between his toes. Daryl chased the shoe around for few seconds before Glen stepped on the back edge letting Daryl gain a little leverage. Then they repeated the process on the other foot.

Already worn out, Daryl limped over, making flip flop noises, to the tree line for a moment of privacy. He ignored how Glen hovered nearby with back turned. When finished, he refused Glen's help while he limped over to the fire. It was very cold out and the heat was welcome. Glen had a camp chair ready, the seat covered a thick pile of towels.

"Think you can sit?" Glen asked. "You look really tired."

Daryl eyed the chair and decided to give it a try. He was going to have to sit sometime. Putting on his game face, Daryl grabbed both arms and lowered himself onto the towels. There was a flare of sting, but it lessened as he sank his weight deeper. Eventually, he was all the way in. It was bearable.

Glen watched Daryl warily. The man seemed to have no memory of the past few hours. Pale and still flushed, Glen noted that Daryl's eyes at least appeared to be clear. Satisfied, Glen scanned the perimeter of camp. It was a quiet night. When he turned back to Daryl, he found the man staring at his feet with an amused expression.

"What?" Glen asked, curious.

"Carol," Daryl chuckled. "Either that woman is out to completely humiliate me, or she has a wicked sense of humor." Daryl lifted on foot up so Glen could see the socks were a fluffy, purple knit with bright pink hearts on them. Glen grinned, too.

"She's probably just practical. Those look really warm. Ridiculous, but warm," Glen approved. "After the last couple of hours.." Glen let the last part just hang. "Can you take watch for a minute? Hershel left some medicine to take when you get up."

Daryl's good mood immediately vanished. "What'd he leave? I'm fine," he growled. Truth was, he wasn't fine. His leg and ass were on fire, and all his joints ached like he had the flu. He was no good to anyone like this and knew it.

Glen came quickly back with mug of water and a handful of pill. "Nothing bad. Just a couple of Tylenol and one antibiotic. We have enough for this and in the morning. I'm going on a run tomorrow." He handed a reluctant Daryl the mug of water and held out the pills on the flat of his hand.

"Stove up means getting stiff from not moving 'round. Can I have some Advil instead?" Daryl asked, rubbing his head so the hair stuck straight up. "We have any?"

"I think we have both," Glen said carefully, sensing something was up. He walked back to Hershel's bag and switched the pills. When he came back, Daryl took the Advil and antibiotic, swallowing them down with ease. "That was easy," he said, earning a sharp look from Daryl.

"You got something to say?" Daryl challenged, rubbing his face with his hands.

Glen plopped down on the spare chair and gave Daryl a withering look. "It's just that you refused to take the Tylenol earlier. Twice, in fact. It caused some problems. Why didn't you just ask for Advil, like now?"

"Twice?" Daryl refused to be baited. He didn't remember palming pills twice before. "What happened?"

Glen paused to scan the perimeter again. All clear. He held his hand out for Daryl's now empty mug "Long story, but we have refreshments." Glen gave Daryl a boyish grin, while he whipped out two packets of powdered hot chocolate out of his hip pocket. "Ta da!" he crowed.

"Where'd you get those?" Daryl asked, surprised. "I can't remember the last time I had hot chocolate. There enough for everyone?"

"I found four boxes!" Glen rocked back and forth on his heels. "No marshmallows, though." He ripped open a white packet and carefully poured the brown powder into Daryl's mug. After tossing the empty packet into to the fire to burn, Glen dipped boiling water out of a nearly empty cast iron kettle. It was the camp's habit to keep a pot of water boiling for a hundred different reasons from wash water, to drinking water.

"Everyone else already had their packets before bed. I saved mine to drink with you," he continued tipping the kettle to get the last of the hot water, just filling Daryl's mug and dropping in a spoon.

"Why'd you do that?" Daryl asked eagerly accepting the steaming mug. "How'd you know I'd wake up?"

"Dude," Glen laughed. "I haven't seen you sleep more than five hours at a time, ever. Short of being drugged, I knew you were going to wake up."

Daryl nodded. That made sense. The mug had a picture of a velociraptor and the words Jurassic Park on it. It was Daryl's favorite mug. He stirred to mix and inhaled the aroma. Chocolate with a tang of iron from the pot, just like Meemaw used to make. "Still, you didn't have to wait."

"Yes I did," Glen grinned again. "Couldn't pull this out with witnesses." Glen pulled out a small bottle of bourbon, the kind found in minibars. "Courtesy of T-Dog."

"Hot damn," Daryl drawled. "You gonna share there, Quick Draw?"

Glen tossed the tiny bottle to Daryl. "Don't forget to leave enough for T-Dog, too. He was going to have his when he took watch." Glen looked in the pot and set down the dipper. "Dog is having a bad day, so I thought I'd take part of his shift." Glen looked up and scanned the perimeter. "I need more water, can you take watch for a minute?"

"Sure." Daryl wondered why Glen even asked. "I'm good." And he was. Daryl could already feel the Advil working. He cracked the tiny bottle and tipped a small amount of bourbon into his chocolate. He used less than one third of the bottle. In the distance, Daryl could hear Glen tromping through the woods.

Listening intently for any sign Glen ran into trouble, Daryl gave his chocolate a last stir and set it down. Since he was pretty much alone, he decided he should get dressed.

Daryl shrugged back the blanket and quickly donned the shirt Glen left without paying attention to what it was. When he grabbed the pants, Daryl paused. It was his favorite Georgia Bulldog pants. The seam along one leg had been carefully picked out, but not damaged. A rough, but practical series of shoestring ties had been stitched along the seam to make it easy to close around his bandaged leg. Carol's ingenuity no doubt. Daryl felt the prickle of emotions behind his eyes. Damn, but that woman was getting under his skin.

Fighting back the unexpected emotion, Daryl managed to get the pants on and laced before Glen came back with a clean cat litter bucket filled with creek water. It felt really good to be completely dressed. Normal.

Daryl wrapped the blanket back around his shoulders and picked up his mug again. He took a sip and instantly scalded his lip. Still too hot.

Glen gave Daryl a nod and toted the bucket over to the fire. If Daryl hadn't been completely lost in the aroma of hot chocolate, he would have stopped Glen before anything happened. But as luck would have it that day, Glen lifted the bucket and poured the icy cold water directly into the now empty and hot, cast iron pot.

The water hit with a hiss of steam on contact. Instantly, the peal of a bell sounded as the cast iron pot split neatly in half, one huge chunk of distressed metal falling into the fire seconds before Glen's poured water followed, completely dousing the flames.

"Shit!" Glen stood there, enveloped in a cloud of steam holding his empty cat litter bucket.

Daryl fought back a laugh. "You burnt?"

"No," Glen said morosely. "I'm a little damp, but that's all. Look at the fire."

"Build another one," Daryl stated. "When you go out tomorrow, look for another pot. It'll be fine." Daryl shifted on the chair and grabbed a long stick with his free hand. Using the stick, he quickly dug out a dozen still burning coals from the smoldering fire pit. The embers would make starting a new fire all that much easier. Glen caught on to his idea, and took over herding the hot coals to a dry location.

"I swear, man. I think we're jinxed," Glen grouched getting out the shovel and digging out the wet ashes. He flung them into the cat litter bucket with a sour expression on his face.

"Glen," Daryl asked, his lips quirking. "Ain't that the clean water bucket? Think the ash bucket is over there." Daryl gestured vaguely behind him.

Glen threw down the shovel swearing and stomped off toward the ash bucket.

"Hey Glen," Daryl asked again. "Why don't ya just use this bucket since ya already dirtied it up?" Daryl casually sipped his hot chocolate and hid his smile. The hot chocolate and bourbon was really good. Warmth seeped down his throat to fill his belly. It was a good feeling.

Glen made a frustrated sound and stomped back. He snatched up the shovel and got back to work. He made quick work of clearing out the fire pit and after a few shovelfuls of clean, dry dirt, he started stacking wood.

"I can't believe I did that," Glen grouched while wading up newspaper for tender. "This whole day has been nothing but problems." He used the shovel to carefully place the hot coals in various places in newspaper. "You, Rick, Carol, Hershel, T-Dog all on injured reserve. Maggie's sleeping with Beth and not me. Carl's grounded. And if Lori breaks just one more can opener I'm going to scream." Glen stopped his tirade to crouch and blow on the coals, getting the fire going.

"Add to that all the crap that happened tonight and that makes this one shitty day." Glen sat back on heels and grinned. "I made a good fire," he said, pointing.

Daryl shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to ease the ache. He didn't remember half the stuff Glen was talking about.

"You feeling okay," Glen asked, concerned.

"Kinda achy," Daryl replied honestly. "I don't remember most of what you said. What happened?"

"Why won't you take Tylenol?" Glen countered softly, getting to his feet.

"What difference does that make?" Daryl answered sharply. He started rubbing on his leg. Damn thing was itching as much as it hurt.

"Because half the problems center around you not taking the Tylenol. And stop scratching. You'll get an infection." Glen walked over and slapped Daryl's hands away from his leg. "What could be so bad?"

"They look like Oxycodone. Have a bad experience once," Daryl slapped Glen's hands right back. "Quid pro quo, Clarice. What happened?"

"It was epic," Glen mused. "Where do you want me to start?" Glen gave Daryl an assessing look and turned to scan the perimeter again.

"Start with T-Dog and keep going," Daryl downed the rest of his now warm chocolate and tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

"T-Dog got his nose half busted when you collapsed the tent. I got caught by Hershel with my hands down Maggie's pants. Hershel threatened to cut off my arm, but I'm not worried because his back is out. Lori caught Carl reading that Hustler magazine you keep in your saddlebags, when he went for your clothes. She drew a circle in the dirt and grounded him to stay inside of it. And Lori broke both can openers. By my count, that makes fourteen can openers broken." Glen took an exaggerated breath. "Why do you have a toy compass on a string?"

"It's Merle's. He gave it to me when he got out of juvie that time I got lost in the woods. Said it was his lucky charm. Said I'd never get lost again if I had it on me," Daryl replied guardedly. "Carl got busted for porn, huh? At least that mag is a classic. Probably worth it. What happened tonight? What'd I miss?"

"Did you have a girlfriend or a wife, you know, before?" Glen asked instead of answering. "I found some seriously expired condoms in your bags. Like three years expired."

"Why, you looking to score some rubbers?" Daryl chuckled, not really amused. "No wife, no girlfriend. No girls woulda took up with me, what with my family. Only ones to give me the time a day were bar whores and prostitutes. Once you've had one of those, you've had them all. I stopped lookin' a long time ago. Those were probably Merle's."

Glen considered Daryl's honest assessment. He could think of a lot of related things to ask, but decided to side-step. "Is Dixon Demolition your company? Cool shirt, by the way."

"No, it's my uncle's company. He hails out of Carter Caves in east Kentucky. Started working for him when I was seventeen. Merle needed lawful employment as a part of his parole. Our uncle gave him the chance. Hired me to keep Merle out of trouble. Lots of Dixons in Carter Caves." Daryl was wondering why Glen kept avoiding telling him what happened by asking him all these questions. Was he avoiding things? Who hadn't he talked about? "Is Rick okay?" Daryl asked checking people off in his head.

"Rick's fine. Fell back asleep after the tent thing and hasn't really woke up again." Glen added another log and checked the camp. "What was your job?"

"Found out real early that I have a talent for explosives. Started out by stopping Merle from blowing up some crappy little shed once. The foreman, Kurt, taught me two things. How to set charges and how to brew moonshine and poteen." Daryl rubbed his face. He was wearing out fast and still hadn't gotten any real information.

"Moonshine? What's poteen?" Glen was ablaze with curiosity. "Were you a moonshiner?"

"Poteen is Irish potato moonshine. Strongest thing you can brew. It was Merle's favorite. And no, I wasn't a moonshiner. I only brewed what Merle and I drank. You really want to know about this stuff?" Daryl asked. When Glen nodded, Daryl continued. "Been collecting parts to make a still. Figured if we ever settled down in one place, moonshine would be a good thing to have on hand to trade. I could teach you, if you wanted," Daryl offered.

"Cool," Glen exclaimed. "I'd like to learn. But what I really wanted to know was about your life. You never talk about before." Glen added another log to the fire, giving the camp a scan.

"Ain't much more to know and _before_ don't matter anymore. What happened tonight, Glen? Is it Carol? Is she okay?" Daryl was really getting worried. Glen always ran at the mouth. If he wouldn't say, it was probably really bad.

"I'm fine."

Daryl twisted in his chair to see Carol sit up, the blanket still wrapped around her head.

"What Glen doesn't want to tell you is that you spiked a fever shortly after you fell asleep." Carol somehow managed to climb to her feet and started limping heavily toward the fire. Glen dashed over and helped Carol to the chair next to Daryl. She settled in with a sigh.

"We tried to get you to take some more Tylenol, but you went ballistic. You punched T-Dog in the face, right on top of his already sore nose. You knocked Glen into the side of the truck. It took all of us to pin you down and force some drugs and water down your throat. It was horrible." Carol patted Daryl's hand. Daryl just groaned.

"Did I hurt anyone other than T-Dog? He okay?" Daryl was horrified. "Did I hurt you?" he asked Carol, concerned.

"I was fine. Thanks for asking," Glen replied without being asked. "Worst part was that Maggie laughed at me when I got my shirt caught on the tailpipe. Couldn't get loose."

Daryl flicked Glen a look of incredulity, before returning his attention to Carol. He couldn't tell much through the heavy blanket she wore. He started to look inside when Carol protested and grabbed his hand.

"I'm fine Daryl. You only squashed me a little when you rolled on top. Once you realized it was me, you stopped fighting." Carol gave a little smile and touched his stricken cheek. "No one blames you. We were all worried at how sick you were." She dropped her hand. "Your fever is better, but you're still warm. See what happens when you take your medicine?" She gave him a small smile.

Daryl ducked his head, ashamed. He fought the urge to lash out and run into the woods. There would be no running for a couple of days at least. He felt Carol's hand on his arm. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

"What happened to the pot?" Carol exclaimed.

Daryl listened to Glen try to explain that one away while he tipped back his head and looked at the stars again. It was a fine night. He was glad there wasn't a tent above him. He liked it out in the open.

"What a sight."

Carol's comment drew Daryl back to earth. He wondered how long he had been lost in his own head again. Glen was nowhere to be seen. He looked over at Carol. She was cocooned in her blanket, only her face showing. The firelight danced on her skin and made her eyes shine.

"Yes, it is," Daryl answered, meaning more than one thing. "But not as fine as a pair of purple socks with pink hearts."

Carol laughed and gave him a sideways smirk. Together they looked at the stars until dawn broke in the east, until the camp started to stir with the coming day. Daryl found himself secretly grateful for his pockmarked ass. It kept him awake and gave him an excuse so he could spend this time with Carol.

As the camp filled with morning light, Daryl could see Carl in his sleeping bag still within the circle drawn in the dirt. He wondered how long that was gonna last.

Just beyond Carl, he watched Beth wake up and stretch. When she turned his way she gave him a brilliant smile. That one had trouble written all over her, Daryl mused. Carl had better watch out when he grew up.

He looked back at Carol and found she had fallen asleep. With no one to witness him, Daryl reached over and adjusted the blanket, allowing himself to gently touch her cheek. Today their luck would change. He'd make sure of it.

Daryl straightened in the camp chair feeling his backbone pop one vertebra at a time. He reached out and stoked up the fire making it pop louder than his back.

"Morning."

Daryl turned to see a sleepy Rick stumble up to the fire, yawning. One side of Rick's hair was plastered straight up. "You doing okay?" he asked while rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Fair to middling," Daryl replied. "How 'bout you?"

"I'll live," Rick grinned. "Best damn sleep of my life."

Glen came up to the fire to warm himself, a can of Red Bull in his hands. Glen had that twitchy look of someone on too much caffeine. "Happy Friday the 13th," he chimed gleefully.

Friday the thirteenth! Daryl groaned silently, suddenly sure it wasn't all over. If it weren't for bad luck, he'd have to luck at all. He shut his eyes and sank back into the chair.

"Anyone seen Carl?"

Yup. It wasn't over yet.

tbc...

_**AN:** Hope that wasn't too sweet. I blame it on all the pie I ate over Thanksgiving! _

_I wanted to give a nod to Janne Doe for telling me about Carter Caves and to Marion Arnold for all of her advice. Thanks guys!_

_Two more chapters left. Hope you all enjoyed. Drop me a line and let me know. Reviews are like getting presents in the mail._

_Thanks again! Surplus Imagination._


	9. Hangman - Friday 13th Part 1

**Disclaimer: **See Chapter 1. If I owned the characters of The Walking Dead, I'd make sure that my favorite ones didn't die in the mid-season finale. Too bad I don't own them.

**Friday the Thirteenth, Part 1**

**Hang Man**

Daryl could take listening to the entire camp bumbling around looking for Carl for only so long, before he had to join in. You would think that living for months on the road would give these people some basic skills at stealth. Shit no.

To be fair, it wasn't like he was ninja quiet today. Between the damn flip flops slapping on his feet at every gimpy step and his inability to navigate the bushes without crashing into each and every limb, he was just about as noisy as the rest of the group.

And he was seriously crabby. He leg hurt, his joints were on fire and he was hot and cold at the same time. To make matters worse, he had stumbled through a patch of dried cockleburs. The thorny little bastards were stuck all over Carol's girly purple socks. He was going to have a hell of a time getting those off without ruining her fuzzy footwear. He had already stuck his fingers bloody trying to pull them out.

Daryl sucked his sore fingers and limped toward the place he had killed the snared walker the day before. He had a hunch he'd find Carl checkin' his trap lines. When he found that kid, he would gonna make sure he couldn't sit down for a week!

Maybe he'd use one of those cocklebur switches. Daryl remembered he and Merle used to beat each other in mock sword fights with those things. Merle could always hit harder and did. Daryl would leave the fights bruised and bleeding. But Daryl usually managed to score a couple of good hits, too. Once, he had whacked Merle right on the back of his curly head. The cockleburs stuck so fast that Daddy had shaved Merle bald to get them all out. That was a good day.

Daryl limped along and scoffed at himself. Who was he fooling? He wasn't gonna whoop on that boy. Too many bad memories. Besides, getting thrashed never stopped him or Merle from getting into some serious trouble. Never. He'd just have to think of a way to make Carl realize he needed to stay the hell put.

Or maybe he didn't, Daryl reasoned. Maybe the kid's wandering tendencies were a good thing. He certainly knew how to sneak effectively. Daryl stopped and felt his own head. He must be spiking a fever to be thinking this way. Course, if he was burning up, his hands would be the same temperature as his forehead. He wouldn't be able to tell. Daryl tried to remember when he took his last Advil when he heard a small sound that sounded a little like, "Help!"

Daryl picked up his gimpy pace and barrelled through the bushes. Just a few steps away was Carl dangling upside down from one of the snares Daryl had fixed. The loop had hooked the boy's right foot and had sprung him up so that his down-stretched arms nearly brushed the ground. Daryl could see all the stuff from Carl's pockets littering the ground below him.

After making sure that nothing that could eat them was lingering nearby, Daryl flip flopped on over near Carl and studied the fallen trinkets. It was a veritable treasure trove.

"Damn, boy. You been holding out on us?" Daryl exclaimed fingering the booty. There were Lifesaver candies, rubber bands, a magnifying glass, a package of fish hooks, lip balm, four marbles, a pair of dice, three pocket knives, cough drops, a black sharpie and half a eaten chocolate chip granola bar.

"Daryl! Help me down," Carl cried. The sound of his voice was muffled by his shirt that had fallen over the lower half of his face. The boy swung his arms at Daryl, hoping to latch on, but Daryl ungracefully side-stepped.

"You don't need my help," Daryl said. "Git your own self down." Daryl gave Carl a little push to get him out of the way. As Carl swung out a little, Daryl snagged the sharpie, the Lifesavers and one of the pocket knives. "This one is mine. We'll have a little talk about helping yourself to my stuff later," Daryl promised. He limped over to a tree and propped himself up. Unrolling a Lifesaver, he watched Carl's reaction.

"You can't leave me like this," Carl wailed, flapping his arms around. "And those are my Lifesavers. Give 'em back."

"Think of them as rent on my knife," Daryl replied, waving his knife at the boy. Daryl popped a candy into his mouth with a flourish. Lime.

"Daryl, please. My head is going to explode," Carl said dramatically. To emphasize his point, Carl pushed his hands against both ears like he was holding his brain inside. The effect was ruined by Daryl's snort of laughter, followed by a second candy. Cherry.

"Don't eat them all," Carl whined, letting his hands fall toward the ground. "At least save me the red ones. They're my favorite."

"Too late," said Daryl, crunching loudly.

Carl glared as Daryl unrolled a third candy. Even upside down, he could see that it was red, too.

"What? You gonna just give up like that?" Daryl examined the red circle carefully before popping that one in his mouth, too. "Never figured you for a quitter."

"But I'm stuck! I tried to get my knife out to cut the line, but they all fell." Carl made an exasperated sound. "I tried."

"You didn't try everything, did you?" Daryl asked closing the foil on the roll. "I ain't gonna be here to save you every time. Probably get killed off next week, most likely. Then where would you be? Oh yeah, hanging upside down," Daryl finished, crossing his arms. "Take a look around you. You got everything you need to get down right here."

Carl growled in frustration, but looked wildly around him. "I don't see anything but bushes, trees and those pansy socks you're wearing. Never took you for a cross-dressing drag queen," Carl said crossly.

"Don't be mean," Daryl chuckled, "or I'll just have to take this sharpie and draw ya a big flower around that belly button. That won't come off for weeks. These are Carol's socks and she was trying to be nice."

"That's what you think," Carl said warily. He grabbed his shirt bottom and tried to tuck it into his pants to cover his belly button. Since he was dangling, it just came loose as quickly as it got tucked.

"At least I'm thinking. You aren't," Daryl drawled, slapping the sharpie in his hands. "Look around you again. Don't you see a way out?" It was clear as day to Daryl, that Carl could swing himself over to the bushes and use those to pull himself over to tree. Climb the tree a bit, loosen the noose and get free. Easy as pie. Carl obviously didn't think like he did.

Carl blew a raspberry of frustration whiling looking around again. Spotting the two remaining pocket knives, he tried to make himself bounce on the rope hoping to reach them.

Daryl was impressed. He hadn't thought of that way right off. He rubbed the front side of his aching leg and tried to get the weight off of it. He hoped Carl would figure this out soon. He was feeling a powerful need to lay down again.

On the fifth bounce, Carl managed to snag one of the pocket knives. Grinning in triumph, Carl flicked it open and started to curl himself up to his feet.

"If you cut the line, you are gonna fall like a rock," Daryl pointed out. "You sure you want to do that?"

Carl paused mid-curl to consider. Then fumbled the knife. It landed point down at Daryl's feet, far out of Carl's reach. Dejected, the boy flopped back down. "Can you give me a hint?"

Then Daryl had an idea. He was pretty sure it was a bad idea, but he couldn't help himself since it's one that Merle had done to him once. He wondered just how hard Lori could hit.

"We could play hangman for the answer," he suggested. "Since you are already dangling there."

Carl studied him, looking for the trap. His freckled face was beet red. "How do you play?"

"You guess the steps to get yourself free. I'll tell you is you're hot or cold. Hot, you get to ask again. Cold, I get to draw something on your face," Daryl smirked.

"With the sharpie?" Carl asked, incredulously. "If I knew the answer already, I wouldn't be in this mess."

"You might guess all 'hot'," Daryl offered, silently considering what he'd draw.

"Fine," Carl grouched. "Guess this is the only way I'll get free."

"Cold," Daryl declared, reaching out with the sharpie.

"Wait," Carl protested. "We haven't started yet."

"We started the minute you didn't watched where you were going," Daryl disagreed. "And you could figure this out on your own if you tried harder."

"Fine. But make it something cool," Carl muttered.

"Cool, huh?" Daryl ignored him and drew one half of a curly mustache. He gave it an artistic swirl. "Wanna try again?"

Carl touched his lip hoping to feel the line. He looked moodily around for something to ask. He first considered the last knife on the ground, but rejected it immediately. Been there, done that. He looked frantically around. The only other thing he could see were bushes. With a sigh, he guessed that.

"Bushes," he said in a monotone.

"Hot," Daryl smirked.

Carl looked at the bushes with renewed interest. They just looked like bushes to him. He wondered how he could reach them when Daryl gave him a little push. Carl caught the idea quickly and started swinging himself, back and forth, until he reached bushes. He snagged the skinny limbs and hung on. "Now what," he muttered, looking wildly around. "Am I supposed to pull myself free with these?"

"Cold," Daryl replied. He reached over, grasped Carl's chin firmly and drew the other curly side. "Try looking up," he offered.

"If I look up, I'll probably be looking at Carol's red underwear, since she dressed you," Carl retorted, annoyed.

"Cold again," Daryl quickly drew a little pointy chin. Merle was right, this game was fun. He wondered if Carl would be wrong enough times to draw little devil horns. His fingers itched to try.

"You are enjoying this too much," Carl grouched, warming to the game a little. He wondered what he looked like, while studying what was above the trees. There were just trees. Young trees with low limbs, he noticed. Just like the sapling tree he used to make the snare. Suddenly certain, he asked his next question. "I use the branches to pull me over to the tree," he stated confidently.

"Hot." Daryl capped the pen.

Carl grinned and pulled himself over, wobbly branch by branch, until he reached the pine sapling. When he got there, he said, "Now I climb this little tree and get loose."

"Very hot," Daryl approved. "See? You could have figured this out on your own. Ya didn't need me."

Carl started to pull himself up the sapling like a young squirrel, grinning wildly. As he cleared the bush, one of the limbs sprung back and hit Daryl's bad leg with a sound thwack. Daryl gave a loud cry of pain as he was knocked clean off his feet.

"Dary!," Carl cried out, climbing faster. As soon as the rope gained a little slack, Carl paused and wiggled out of the noose. On numb legs, he shimmied back down the tree and crawled over to Daryl. The man was clutching his leg in pain. "You okay?" he asked.

"Now what did you do?" Rick entered the little clearing and saw the two on the ground. "What happened?" he asked, catching sight of Carl's face.

Carl gave a quick recount while Rick checked Daryl over. A patch of red was blooming on the backside of Daryl's bad leg. Slowly, the downed man began to relax. "That really hurt," he gasped, while Rick helped him sorta sit up against the tree.

"Hangman, huh?' Rick couldn't help but chuckle. "How appropriate."

"I'm sorry you got hurt again," Carl told Daryl sincerely, "But that was kinda cool."

"None of this would have happened if you had just stayed inside the circle your mother drew," Rick scolded. "You were supposed to be grounded."

"She was serious about that?" Carl was amazed.

At this point, T-Dog came blundering out of the bushes. His nose was swollen twice its regular size.

"Sizz airy on 'k?" he asked.

"Say again," Rick asked puzzled.

Daryl piped up "He asked if everyone was okay. Yeah man, we're fine."

"You understood that?" Carl asked, eyebrows high.

"Sure. It's just broke-nose speech. Had lots of practice. Merle was always getting his face smashed in." Daryl took T-Dog's proffered hand and let the big man help him up.

Carol was the only one left in the camp. All the rest, Daryl included, were off looking for Carl. Hershel had ordered the both of them to stay put, but once the older man had hobbled off, Daryl left too. Carol wasn't particularly worried. Carl had a knack for getting around. If the world hadn't ended, she would have thought he'd make a great spy one day. She figured that Daryl would come crawling back if his leg got too much for him.

To pass the time, she started making a shopping list. Glen promised to go on a run as soon he got back. She wanted the pieces to make a box oven.

Yesterday, Glenn went ransacking cars looking for antibiotics for Daryl's leg. He didn't find any of those, but he did find a crate filled powdered hot chocolate, brownie mix, oil, Styrofoam cups, tin foil pans and a carton of rotten eggs. Based on the smell of the crate, Carol figured that he found a little something else, too. Somebody obviously had the munchies before some walkers decided to munch on them.

Brownies, though Carol dreamily. She wanted to make everyone brownies. She got Glen to agree to hide the brownie mix for a surprise. She was just completing her list when Carl and Rick came back. Carl was sporting a black mustache and beard. On their heels was T-Dog supporting a heavily limping Daryl.

"Carl, you look like the Frito Bandito," Carol laughed. Her laughter died when she caught sight of Daryl. The man was positively grey. "What happened?"

"Ah im shuck em n a egg," T-Dog tried to enunciate clearly as he helped Daryl hobbled over to the camp chair next to Carol.

Daryl didn't really even look up. He rubbed his leg and translated, "He said, a limb struck him in the leg. That shit hurts."

"Ah didda ay at," T-Dog protested.

"He wants you to know that the shit part is mine," Daryl sighed. "It's not getting any better. I think something is still stuck in there."

"Ant ma ta get Hsssss?" T-Dog asked, concerned.

"Naw, I got it." Daryl looked up at T-Dog, studying his face. "Did Hershel set your nose? It still looks crooked."

T-Dog just shook his head, He rubbed at his nose a little, wincing. "Ad e tant."

"I could fix it, if you like. I've done it a bunch of time," Daryl offered, still rubbing his leg.

"Mwl?" T-Dog asked. He looked a little skeptical and more than a little wary.

"Mostly. Fixed my own once." Daryl scrutinized T-Dog's face a bit more. "Need some rags. It's gonna bleed like crazy."

Carol couldn't quite follow the conversation. It was like watching the Latin channel on TV. "Could you translate for the audience?" she asked.

Daryl leaned over and picked a cocklebur off the top of a sock and tossed it in the fire. "T asked me if I wanted him to get Hershel. I said no. T then said that Hershel couldn't set his nose, so I offered. Then he wanted to know who I had fixed before. He guessed Merle. He was right." Daryl sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was so tired and the day had just begun.

"Can you really do that, fix T-Dog's nose?" Carol asked. "I've got some rags here that I was going to use to clean your leg when you got back. Are you sure you're okay to do this. You don't look well."

"Sure. It's simple." Daryl heaved himself up on his feet and ignored the rest. He beckoned to T-Dog to come over to him. He took one of the rags from Carol and shoved it in T-Dog's hands. "You hang on to that."

"ill wit urt?" T-Dog asked, concerned. He clutched the rag in both hands, wringing them slightly.

"Like a sum bitch," Daryl promised soberly. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't punch me afterwards."

T-Dog crossed his heart and shoved his hands in his pockets. Daryl set his feet and reached up to grasp T-Dog's head. He braced the misshapen nose with both thumbs and quickly knocked the nose sideways. T-Dog howled and tried to take a step back, but Daryl held firm. Carol cringed on the chair. She had never seen anything like that.

"Needs another nudge. Just hold still," Daryl gritted and pushed hard with his thumbs again. Amazingly, the nose gave a noisy pop and moved back into place. Blood gushed out of T-Dog's nose in torrents. Daryl grabbed the rag out of T's pocket and shoved it against the flow. T-Dog raised one shaky hand to hold the rag himself. After a minute, the flow pretty much stopped.

"Nother nudge ma ass," he muttered, sitting down to cradle his head.

"Hey, I understood that," Carol exclaimed. "It worked." She looked at Daryl impressed. "You are full of surprises." It was easier to look at Daryl than T-Dog blood splattered face. She reached over and gave T-Dog's shoulder a comforting pat.

"Yeah, I'm a bundle of fun." Daryl leaned over and unlaced the leg of his pants. Pushing the cloth aside, he started carefully feeling down the back of his leg.

Carol got to her feet and made her way over to Hershel's bag using a golf club as a cane. She got the Tylenol bottle out for T-Dog and the Advil out for Daryl. When she turned, she exclaimed, "You're bleeding again!"

"Just a little. It's fine," Daryl said not really paying attention. With a grunt, he pulled out his knife from his waistband and popped it open. With deft movements, he cut the bandage off with one smooth swipe. Then he grabbed the knife by the blade and guided it into a spot marked by his fingers. Carol and T-Dog watched amazed as Daryl stabbed the knife in a quarter of an inch, gave the blade a twist, and the managed to pry something out of the wound. All of this was done without making a sound or seeing what he was doing.

Carol held her hand out flat while Daryl dropped a bloody quill nib onto her palm. It was gross. Carol tried to control her stomach as Daryl quickly dug out two more. "Think that's it, Ought to heal now," he said in a tight voice, leaning heavily on his knees. He dropped the knife on the ground without closing it. "Pretty sure I'm gonna pass out," he added calmly, just a moment before he started to list to one side. Both Carol and T-Dog jumped to keep Daryl out of the fire.

"This is a really bad idea." Glen gripped the steering wheel and gave Maggie a sideways glance. The keys dangled in the ignition unturned. After spending a frantic morning searching for Carl, Glen was completely unsettled. Foreboding gripped him darker than Carl's new mustachio.

"How's that, babe?" Maggie asked while going through the list Carol handed her. "I don't know where we're going to get half of these items. What's the Breath Right strips for?"

"T-Dog's broken nose. I don't know what Carol's going to do with them. Splint maybe?" Glen let go and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. He wasn't sure how to talk to Maggie about this. Knowing her, it would be bad.

"You don't splint a nose fracture," Maggie stated matter-a-fact. She kept skimming the list and then added a couple of things to the bottom. "What's a bad idea? Why aren't we moving?"

"Do you know what today is?" Glen asked. He decided to plunge straight forward and tell her true. Glen wondered where his lucky cap was. He would probably need that lucky cap.

"Well, I know it's not your birthday, or Christmas or the fourth of July." Maggie looked up to give Glen that look women always used when talking to stupid men. Glen hated that look.

"Today is Friday the thirteenth," he declared ominously, straightening his shoulders. Uncomfortable under Maggie's stare, he started searching around for his cap.

"Really," Maggie mused. "What's that got to do with anything?" Without being asked, Maggie opened the glove box and pulled out the once white cap and handed to him wordlessly.

"Bad things happen on Friday the thirteenth. I want you to stay here," Glen said firmly, putting the cap on his head. He felt better already. "I'll see if Rick can come instead." Glen waited for her reaction. When she just looked at him blankly, Glen reached to open the door.

"Wait a minute," Maggie said quickly. She snatched his arm and pulled him back. "I never took you for the superstitious type. Daddy always called it 'stupidstitous'. I expect he's right." Maggie smiled a very small smile.

Glen caught himself smiling at stupidstitious, then pulled his bad-guy face out. "With the terrible luck we've been having, do you really want to take a chance?" Glen was certain that Maggie would respect the face. "You have to stay here."

"You constipated, or something? Your face is all weird." Maggie asked, innocently. "Maybe you should stay here and I'll take Rick." She added a silent_ dumb_ _ass _that both them knew was there.

"Maggie! It won't be safe," Glen pointed out. "I want you at camp where it's safe!"

"Safe? Are we staying at the camp? Relax," Maggie giggled. "You've watched too many movies. It's just a day like any other."

"You won't say that when a hockey mask wearing zombie comes and kills you," Glen argued. He was a little miffed that his bad-guy face was so ineffective. He had practiced it and everything.

"Will be we having sex when he does come?" Maggie asked, walking her fingers up Glen's arm. "You know, I was a camp counselor a couple of summers in college."

Glen batted her fingers away. "No! No sex on Friday the thirteenth! It's bad luck." Maggie just laughed.

I know a clearing not far from here. It's still early. We could sneak a couple of minutes there and still have plenty of time for the run." Maggie scooted closer and tickled Glen's ear.

"Stop it," Glen whined. "No sex. I mean it." He gave up trying to convince Maggie and started the truck.

"You could pretend that I was Danielle Panabaker and I could pretend you're Jared Padalecki," she purred.

"Ew. Definitely no sex." Glen gave Maggie a glare. "The 2009 remake was lame in comparison to the 1980 original. So lame."

"But I don't want to have sex with Kevin Bacon," Maggie complained. "I much prefer Jared Padalecki. He's really cute."

"You just want to have sex with Sam Winchester. This has nothing to do with Friday the Thirteenth," Glen pointed out. "You coulda picked Aaron Yoo. He's cute and he's Asian."

"So you like cute Asian guys, huh?" Maggie grinned. "Maybe I could have both."

"Bad, Maggie, so very bad," Glen chuckled while driving away. "Chewie isn't my type. Sam Winchester, however..."

As the two of them drove off bickering about horror movies, the gas cap to the truck flipped off the open gate and rolled away.

_tbc..._

_**AN:** I promise that Friday the 13th won't take as many parts as there were movies produced. Carol will tell a story to Daryl about the movies in the next chapter that's based on my own life. If anyone else has a story, or even a favorite scene, let me know. I'd love to hear it!_

_Is everyone ready for the mid-season finale? Anyone else dreading another character death? I've been paranoid all week that I wouldn't at least get this next chapter up before the Kirkman Reaper snuffed out someone else._

_Thanks for reading. Hope you'll drop me a line. Surplus_

"


	10. Planes, Trains and Automobiles

**Disclaimer**: See Chapter 1.

_AN: This chapter flips back and forth between the camp and Glen/Maggie on a run. I tried to help you with some (directions)._

_The chapter title is from the movie by the same name. It's one of my favorite holiday flicks. Gotta love John Candy and Steve Martin! I used that title for a reason. Enjoy!_

_**Friday 13th, Part II**_

_**Planes, Trains & Automobiles**_

Sunlight filtered through Glen's eyelids as he slowly came awake. Delicious warmth permeated through his entire being. He moaned appreciatively and stretched a little. Sprawled across his bare chest, Maggie started to stir. Glen gently stroked her equally bare back, reveling in the silky feel. He cracked a grin remembering how his no-sex-on-Friday-the-Thirteenth rule evaporated under her determined persuasion. They had made good use of the last of the condoms.

All of them.

"What time is it?" Maggie slurred against his chest. Her hair covered most of her face.

"Dunno, I never owned a watch." Glen sighed, not really caring. He was living in the moment, happy to stay in that truck cab for a long, long time.

"Check the clock on the dashboard."

Glen could feel the outlines of Maggie's lips as she spoke. It was an interesting feeling.

"There's a clock on the dash?" he asked, frowning. He didn't really want to open his eyes.

"Yes. It was 7:20 when we stopped."

Glen cracked his eyelids and tried to peer through the beams of sunshine at the dash. Sure enough, there was an old-fashioned dial clock in the dashboard of old Chevy. He never realized it was there.

"It says 12:15, but I don't think it's working. The second hand isn't moving at all," Glen reported. He dropped his head back down and closed his eyes against the brightness.

"It was working when we stopped," Maggie said, propping herself up on her elbows. Unfortunately, one of her elbows got Glen in the gut. Maggie squinted at the clock in horror. "It's 12:15. Shit! We've been asleep for five hours!"

"Not the whole time," Glen grinned as he levered Maggie's elbow out of his stomach and deftly rolled her under him. When he started kissing her shoulders, Maggie slapped him on the back of the head.

"Five hours, Glen. And we haven't even done the run. We've got to get moving!" Maggie half pushed Glen onto the truck's floorboards and used the steering wheel to pull herself upright. Grabbing her clothes and flinging his at his grouchy face, Maggie began to dress while frowning at the clock. "It isn't moving," she muttered while hooking her bra.

"Told you," Glen spat out with a mouthful of shirt. He slithered around Maggie's flailing form to find an empty spot on the bench seat to get dressed himself. Outside, the day shone brightly. Glen scowled as his head began to pound from a Red Bull hangover. He drank two of those to get through the long night without sleep.

Maggie wiggled and bounced into to her well-worn jeans, somehow managing to slip on her shoes at the same time. In one motion, she pulled on her shirt and tapped the clock again. "Something's wrong."

"Maybe the truck has to be started for the clock to work," Glen reasoned. He tried to mimic Maggie's bouncing movement to get his jean on, but only managed to knock him head against the roof. "How do you get dressed so fast?" he huffed. "There's no room."

"The clock runs on the battery," Maggie disagreed. She reached over to help Glen untwist his pants as he clutched his sore head. Then, she stretched down, picked up his fallen shirt and set it on his lap again.

"The battery's just fine. We were playing the radio earlier," Glen replied glaring at his boxers lying on the seat _after_ he had managed to get his pants all the way up. If going commando was good enough for Daryl, it was going be good enough for him. Glen kicked his boxers under the seat and very carefully zipped up his jeans. Once fastened, he started adjusting himself. Commando wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Maybe Daryl had more room in his pants.

"That was five hours ago." Glen froze as the tone of Maggie's voice got his attention. He swiveled his head to catch her worried expression. They exchanged a knowing glance as Maggie reached out to turn the key, the one that was already engaged in the ignition.

Biting her bottom lip, Maggie turned the key off in the ignition and then tried to turn over the engine. All she got was a rapid clicking noise. Maggie twisted the key back and banged her head on the steering wheel.

"Battery's dead," she said unnecessarily. Glen groaned. All around them, the empty clearing in the middle of nowhere, shone brightly in the spring day.

(backatcam_p)_

Carl sat cross-legged in a circle of dirt and contemplated his fate. After the little escapade with the snare and the Sharpie, his father had marched him straight to his mother. Predictably, his mother spent the next billion hours lecturing him on 'responsibilities', all while desperately trying not to laugh. Carl was used to this. His mother was never really strict with punishments, but she sure could talk. And talk and talk and talk. After a couple of threats about Hershel's non-existent woodshed, Carl was left sitting in another circle of dirt only big enough to sit one way.

Man, was it boring!

Carl was pretty sure he wasn't that bad of a kid. It wasn't his fault his parents couldn't come up with punishments that actually got his attention. It wasn't like they'd ever asked him. He'd come up with great punishments, stuff to make him walk the straight and narrow. His kids wouldn't get away with nothing! He'd be smarter than them.

With a sigh, Carl peered around looking for his mother. All he had to do was wait a little while and everyone would forget about him. Then he could go see if Daryl was okay. Daryl was his buddy.

_(ontherun)_

"I don't think this is going to work," Glen said breathlessly. "You need a clutch to pop."

"Shut up and push, Glen. I know what I'm doing," Maggie answered just as breathlessly.

After determining the truck's battery was completely and utterly dead, Glen and Maggie had a quick and nasty round of 'It's your fault', before Maggie came up with the brilliant idea of push starting the truck. She figured to accomplish this by forcing the automatic transmission while rolling downhill. Unfortunately, downhill was half a field away.

Maggie pushed with all of her weight on her left hand against the open driver's side door. She attempted to steer the unresponsive truck with her right. Behind her, Glen was puffing and cursing creatively, as he pushed against the back gate. Inch by inch, the truck slowly rolled toward the downward slope. It was times like these that she really missed a ready supply of deodorant. Nothing brought on an unsexy barrage of BO like stress and excessive physical activity.

She glanced at the angled side-view mirror to see Glen picking his jeans out of his butt between pushes against the back. Maggie couldn't help an unkind snicker as she yanked the wheel harder to the left. "Almost there," she encouraged loudly.

As gravity began to help out, Maggie increased her speed to a trot. When the truck started to inch ahead of her pace, Maggie hopped into the cab and hollered, "I'm going to try it." She put the truck in neutral, turned the key on in the ignition and watched the speedometer. When the needle got close to ten mph, Maggie got ready to shift into first gear. Outside the truck, she could hear Glen screaming something or other. Ignoring Glen, Maggie slammed the shift lever into first gear and braced herself for the lurch of the engine.

The old Chevy certainly did lurch, just not in any way Maggie anticipated. The moment she shifted, Maggie raised her eyes to see a pond rushing up to meet her surprised face.

_(backatcamp)_

Carl tossed the last rock left in the circle against the furthest tree he could find, scoring a direct hit. He had a pretty good throw. Carl dug around in the dirt looking for more rocks, but couldn't find any in the top layer. That's when he remembered his pocket knives. Flipping one open, he used the point to dig the drawn circle into a trench.

"You're going to dull that knife," Lori said as she passed by. Without breaking her new pregnant waddle, Lori snatched up Carl's knife by the hilt and dropped a thick English test book in his lap. "Read pages seventy five through two hundred twenty five and answer all of the questions in chapters four, five, six and seven."

"That's like two hundred pages," Carl whined in protest.

"One hundred and fifty," Lori stopped to give him a glare. "Looks like you need a lesson in math as well." Carl could tell she was daring him to say something else. Not wanting to disappoint her, he got ready to snark something back when she stated, "Go on, say something. I've got essay topics all lined up. You'll be writing until your fingers fall off."

"Promises, promises," Carl grinned, hoping to defuse the situation. He didn't have any problems sitting and writing stories, but essays were another matter. His mother liked to pick 'The Classics' as subjects. The last time she forced one on him, it had been the Scarlet Letter. Carl was pretty sure he could feel his brain cell die, one by one, while he tried to read the chapters.

Maybe his mother wasn't that bad at punishments, Carl considered. He'd do just about anything not to write another essay! Feeling out maneuvered, Carl opened the test book to page seventy five. Oh joy, another author dead about a billion year.

_(ontherun)_

"Shut up, Glen. I don't want to hear it."

"Told you it wouldn't work."

Glen was not a happy person. His shoes were filled with water and his boxers were somewhere in the pond. Wet jeans and no underwear did not make a chafe-free combination. He glared at Maggie who was completely soaked, from head to foot. She had tripped getting out of the truck, laying herself out in the hip-deep water. In a fit of anger, Maggie had thrown Glen's boxers at him when he waded in made sure she was okay.

"What part of shut up don't you understand?" Maggie said crossly. She turned her head and spat something disgusting out on the ground. Glen hoped it was a fish, or something equally gross.

"If you had listened to me, we wouldn't be walking now," Glen grouched while picking at the seat of his pants, again.

"Oh, we'd be walking _just_ the same." Maggie gave him that 'stupid men' look, but this time it was spoiled by some soggy weeds sticking out of her hair.

Glen sneered in return. "We wouldn't be walking in wet shoes...or wet pants...or."

"Yeah yeah yeah, yada yada yada, shut up," Maggie interrupted. She parroted her words with her hands opening and closing. The gesture was really annoying.

"I totally get your dad now." Glen rolled his eyes are her childish behavior.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Maggie crossed her arms and picked up the pace. Glen was forced to crab-walk-hop just to keep up.

"He's always saying that insanity is inherited. You get it from your children," Glen smirked somewhat breathlessly.

"I bought him that T-shirt. It doesn't count." It was Maggie's turn to roll her eyes.

"How are you going to explain to Daryl that you drove his truck into a lake...after you ran the battery out," Glen challenged. _Ha,_ he thought, _gotcha!_

"You ran the battery out," Maggie replied nonchalantly. She tossed her head to emphasize just how nonchalant she was. The water weed dislodged and flung itself toward Glen and landed on his shirt.

Glen slapped at the offending weed. It left a stinky, pond-scum smear. "You were the one to turn on the radio," he accused.

"Only because you became Mr. Frigid and needed help relaxing. And that truck isn't Daryl's. We found in on I-75." Maggie stopped and gave Glen that 'I told you' look.

Glen rounded right back at her, wiping his disgusting, scummy hands on his pond-water damp pants. "I am NOT frigid. I am the opposite of frigid. Anti-frigid, as in not even close to frigid...Are you sure about the truck? Daryl's kinda scary."

"Wimp. Daryl's a pushover." Maggie took a step toward Glen and raised her eyebrows.

Glen stepped forward, too. "Only because you're a girl. Daryl doesn't hit girls. Me on the other hand, he'd pound into the ground." Glen emphasized his plight with smacking hand motions.

"I'm going to pound you into the ground." More eye-rolling. Glen thought this was getting old. He joined in on the eye-rolling fest. He thought they must look pretty stupid standing in the middle of an empty road rolling their eyes at each other.

Then Maggie's eyes flicked at something behind Glen. She smirked and punched him solidly in the arm.

"Ow! What's that for?" Glen asked aggrieved.

"Punch Buggy, don't punch back!" Maggie grinned half evilly.

"That hurt! You hit too hard. Ow! Why'd you do it again?" Glen rubbed his arm and backed away.

"Because there's a Punch Buggy right there. No there. See it now?" Maggie grabbed Glen's shoulders and turned him around.

Sure enough, there was a puke colored, avocado green VW Bug sitting in the middle of the road with both doors open. It looked like something from the seventies. The early seventies.

"Great. I always wanted a Bug...not!" Glen was more of a sports car fan. VW Bugs ranked right up there on his crappy car list with mini-vans.

Maggie didn't have any patience for his preferences. She let go of his shoulders and moved to stalk past. "Shut up, Glen. That will have a clutch. That we can push start," she said loudly.

Glen fell into step beside her. "I knew I had you around for a reason. Ow! No pinching! What was that for?" Glen asked again, rubbing his arm.

"Do I need a reason?"

"You're mean."

"I know. And you love it."

Sigh.

_(backatcamp)_

"Whatcha reading?"

Carl looked up to the bright, expectant face of Beth. No matter how long it had been since they all had a bath, Beth always looked fresh and pretty. Carl felt his stomach flip-flop. He couldn't help mirroring her smile.

"English. Looks like something from some dude named Fitzgerald." Carl turned the book so Beth could see.

"The Great Gatsby? I love that book," Beth exclaimed. "Can I read it with you like last time? I loved the Scarlet Letter, too. It was so much fun reading that one again."

Carl had forgotten that part. Beth had helped him through the language and understanding the story. The plot was actually pretty good once you got past reading someone describing their garden for frickin' eighty pages. Carl patted the ground next to him in anticipation. There was no way he could lose here. He got to sit next to his future sweetheart and she'd help him with his homework! Sweet! Carl wondered if she'd let him kiss her. Maybe on the cheek.

Beth settled down with a quiet plop and drew her knees under herself. "I always liked Daisy," Beth smiled. "So fresh and bright, everyone loved her."

"Uh huh," Carl agreed looking at Beth hard, mesmerized. Maybe he should start calling her Daisy. She'd probably like that.

"Did you ever figure out what Daryl has put back for your birthday?" Beth asked a little too sweetly.

Carl broke off his daydreaming to look at Beth sharply. She was up to something. Carl just knew it.

"Because I'm pretty sure that dirty magazine wasn't it," Beth chimed with an evil smile. "Did you even realize that Hustler isn't for children?"

"I know what it is..uh..was," Carl stammered. What was Beth up to? "And who are you calling a child?" Carl winced at how his voice squeaked at the end of that last bit.

"Why you, silly," Beth gave Carl a smirk. "Your mom just told me that your thirteenth birthday isn't for weeks yet. She told me right after she asked me to _babysit _you." Beth stared Carl down a full minute before continuing. "_Babysit_ 'cause you're _twelve_."

A bright flush barreled up Carl's face and corralled both ears. He closed his eyes with embarrassment when Beth repeated, "Twelve!"

_(ontherun)_

"How is this even possible?" Glen complained. "I told you not to run over that walker!"

Maggie gave Glen a truly hateful look and slammed the stick shift into reverse. "I'll try rocking it. Works with mud," she snarled as she hit the gas. Outside the tiny, ancient VW Bug, the engine shrilled and the tires spun, but they didn't move. Maggie shifted back to first and floored the gas again.

"It's like driving a lawn mower." Glen slapped the cracked vinyl dash in frustration. "No, a lawn mower would have more power."

Maggie gritted her teeth and hit reverse again. Somehow she had bottomed-out the Bug running over a walker in the road. Now, none of the tires touched the road, resting on the body of the large walker underneath. After a few more unsuccessful tries, Maggie shut off the engine. The tiny car wobbled from the movement of the undead underneath. The weight of the Bug wasn't enough to kill it, apparently. Looked like they were walking again.

_(backatcamp)_

Carl wracked his brain looking for sudden inspiration. There had to be a way to turn this around. He frantically thought of Daryl, his current hero. What would he do? An image of Daryl snarling and running off to hunt whenever Carol had him pinned flashed across his mind.

Okay, so Daryl sucked at relationships. Glen? No, Glen had no game either. Maggie was in total control, kinda like Beth seemed to be. Carl mentally flipped all of his past male influences through his mind, both young and old. Then Carl had it. He knew what to say.

"Twelve's the new twenty," Carl said confidently, opening his eyes. "I'm advanced for my age, Daisy," he winked, projecting confidence he didn't really feel.

Beth responded with a giggle. To Carl's utter astonishment, she reached over and lightly traced his swirly drawn mustache.

_(ontherun)_

Glen straddled the rusty tractor and fumbled with the key. "I'm driving this time," he declared hitching at his crotch. The still damp jeans had become a misery to wear. It wouldn't be long before he would happily go naked to avoid the stiffening cloth.

Maggie ignored Glen's proclamation and checked the trailer hitch. They hit gold at an old farmhouse, just down the road from the VW Bug. The previous owners had a fully stocked medicine cabinet, complete with three half-filled bottles of antibiotics and a box of Breath Right strips. The kitchen had been filled with dried and canned goods. In the barn, Glen found an old truck painted with no less than four flat colors of Rust-o-leum and sporting four equally flat tires. But the battery was still good. Glen pulled the battery, while Maggie looted the kitchen. They loaded the supplies up on a small trailer attached to a vintage John Deere tractor.

Sticking a piece of hay in his mouth, Glen grinned and asked in his best fake-southern accent, cap pushed back on his head. "Are you ready, Darlin'?"

Maggie tossed a spool of chain in the trailer, blew dirty hair off her forehead and climbed up to sit behind Glen. "I'm sorry I was so mean to you," she said, kissing the back of his neck.

Glen started the tractor with a jolt, making it crawl back toward where they left the truck in the pond. "S'ok," he said. "It's Friday the thirteenth."

_(backatcamp)_

Daryl was getting used to waking up in strange situations; hazards of the end of the world. Course, this kind of thing happened before the end of the world, too. Living with Merle created its own kind of apocalypse.

This time, Daryl awoke with his face pressed in some type of mesh. It didn't interfere with his breathing at all, besides being kinda musty. His body was heavy as the bed under him rode what felt waves.

Waves?

Daryl's senses started to kick-in as he heard a familiar, deep voice. "Next time he decides to dabble in a little self-surgery, I expect one of you to come get me sooner. This leg is a mess. What'd he use, a hatchet?"

"I'm sorry, Hershel. You know how Daryl gets. He had his knife out and was digging in there before I realized what was happening."

Daryl could feel fingers combing through his hair as he scrunched his mesh-squashed nose. The motion was so soothing; he didn't really want to move. His scalp tingled along the feathery path. _So good..._

"I think his fever is going down. He feels a lot cooler to me. Almost normal. I just don't understand why he isn't waking up." Daryl identified the fingers as belonging to Carol. Of course it was Carol. No one else would dare to touch him this way. The rest of Daryl's body began to awaken as his mind cleared, listening to the conversation. A sudden stab of pain made him involuntarily twitch.

"His systems are overtaxed and reasonably shut-down. I'm surprised that he got up and went looking for Carl. I wouldn't have thought him capable of walking on that leg for a couple of days yet. As for waking up, I think he's coming around now. See if you can talk to him. I don't want a repeat of last night."

Daryl took that as his cue to wake the rest of the way up. He felt the soothing fingers leave his scalp slowly, trailing a path down his neck, across one shoulder and down his arm. Daryl tried to grab at the fingers, but found his hands pinned beneath his heavy body. He gave a confused grunt as he opened his eyes and tried to rollover to free his hands. The motion set his world to swinging. The effect was dizzying.

"What the hell?" he muttered, crossing and uncrossing his eyes. He managed to push his face out of the mesh enough to see Carol's blurry face. He blinked several times and her features came into focus.

"Daryl, can you hear me?" Carol asked wide-eyed.

She had one arm out holding his arm steady while the other seemed to be braced on the ground. Daryl could see she was kneeling on one knee, the other leg jutted awkwardly out to one side. Daryl acknowledged Carol with a minute nod. "You're gonna hurt your knee like that. Go sit down. I'm fine," he whispered. Shit! Where did his voice go? It was all wispy.

Carol's face broke out in a joyful grin at his words. It was so bright it hurt to see it. Daryl didn't know what to do with the flood of emotions, so he looked away, pretending to examine the 'bed' he was on. It was a hammock made from the screen material from the tent. Pretty clever.

"T-Dog rigged this up. Hershel's back wouldn't let him bend over to look at your leg, so we raised you up to his level," she explained steadying the motion of the hammock. "Looks pretty comfortable, if you ask me."

"And I'd appreciate it if you'd hold still so I can finish. Unless you'd rather take that knife of yours and just amputate the limb. I'd save me a lot of trouble in the long run."

Daryl craned his head back to take in Hershel's gruff countenance. "No sir," he rasped, before folding himself back down. Daryl let himself sink into the mesh as he listened to Hershel's commentary on what he was going to do with one ear. The other ear roamed outwards, with both his eyes, checking the safety of the camp. Everything looked in order. His luck must be looking up.

_(ontherun)_

Glen waded, knee-deep, in the pond and wrapped the chain around the truck's trailer hitch. He sloshed clear and gave Maggie a wave. "Go ahead," he called out.

On the tractor, Maggie started the engine and slowly took the play out of the chain. Once it was taut, Maggie gunned the engine and started slowly pulling the mired truck out of the pond. It was slow, but it was working.

Glen grinned at their success and waded over to the reeds at the water's edge. There, half floating amongst some lily pads were his discarded boxers. Sitting on top of them was a tiny green frog. Glen started at it trying to decide if the boxers were worth it. Would he want to wear froggy boxers? Would he be able to get the pond stink out of them?

"Glen, what the hell are you doing? Come on!" Glen could hear Maggie open the truck's tailgate. A rush of water poured out. "We've got to get back. Help me load this stuff up."

Considering the frog, Glen watched it puff out its tiny throat repeatedly. It was kind of cute, in a froggy way.

"Don't make me come over there," Maggie threatened, while flinging boxes onto the truck bed.

Glen sighed and pinged the frog off his boxers with flick of fingers. Why should the frog have a good day when his sucked? Glen picked up the sodden boxers and trudged back to the truck.

_(backatcamp)_

The entire camp appeared to be peaceful. Lori was sitting down in a patch of sunshine dozing. Daryl had never noticed those gold highlights before. T-Dog was peeling a batch of potatoes with a happy expression on his face. Carol managed to get herself up in a chair and was watching him with a bemused expression on her face. Rick was pacing restlessly at the outer edges of camp, keeping watch. Daryl knew that Rick would be aching to move on soon. They'd been in this one place for too long.

On the other side of the fire, he saw Carl and Beth sitting on the ground in what looked like a tiny circle drawn in the dirt. Didn't Lori learn her lesson last time? You can't keep a trouble-making boy pinned down with an imaginary boundary.

Daryl could see a thick book and papers scattered around the two kids. He could also make out an open pack of markers, the bright colors scattered on top of the papers. In Carl's right hand was a red one. Carl's left held Beth's arm.

"What's he doing?" Daryl asked everyone and no one. He could feel Hershel prop his leg up and start wrapping bandages, around and around.

"Who?" Carol asked, confused.

"Carl. What's he doing to Beth?" Daryl asked, trying to figure it out himself. Whatever it was, Beth clearly approved based on the peal of laughter coming from her mouth.

"That's the last straw," Hershel growled. Daryl could feel Hershel throw the roll of bandages down into the hammock on top of Daryl. The roll bounced once and careened down into the dirt and bounced right into the fire pit. Then, Daryl had to clutch onto the hammock as Hershel used the swinging mesh to pull himself up on his feet. The hammock swung wildly when Hershel let go and stormed over to where the two kids played. A ruckus ensued, drawing all of the adults in the camp, including a limping Carol.

_(ontherun)_

Maggie tossed the last box of supplies onto the truck bed and moved toward the driver's side door, just as Glen finally mucked his way out of the pond. "What took you so long? Could have used some help loading everything up," she said with a forced calm. _Zen, she was gonna be zen._

Glen looked at her dejectedly and held up a soggy pair of red, plaid boxers. "Don't have that many pair. Hope the smell comes out. It was infested with frogs."

He looked so miserable, standing there covered from the waist down in pond scum, that Maggie felt her irritation ebb. "Did you get the frogs out?"

Glen gave a small nod and shook out the wet flannel again, just to be sure.

"Then I'm sure it will wash out just fine. Let's get back. I'm ready for this day to be over." Maggie faked a reassuring smile and opened the driver's side door. A deluge of water gushed out knocking her feet out from under her.

Maggie sat down hard, her mouth filled with stagnant water. More water poured out of the truck and over her head. As quickly as it started, the water ran out. Maggie spat out the liquid and kept spitting until her mouth was clear. On the ground next to her, several tiny fish flopped around helplessly.

_(backatcamp)_

Daryl hung onto the swinging hammock until the motion slowed down. The last thing he needed was to spill out onto the dirt.

He was wrong. His luck hadn't changed at all. Daryl remembered that this was Friday the thirteenth, after all. Things were bound to go wrong.

Meemaw had been a big one for signs and portents. She would have clucked at Daryl and told him to stay abed on such a woeful day. Daryl was sure that his crazy loon of a Grandma had the right of it. Too bad his bed was two feet off the ground and rocking fitfully.

Daryl gave a fateful sigh, as he watched the roll of bandages catch fire. A trail of flames traveled back along the unraveled length and raced toward the hammock. He idly wondered if the mesh was flammable, as he rolled himself off the other side hitting the ground hard. Daryl frantically tried to unwrap his leg, as the flames caught up to him. Above him, the mesh hammock lit up like a flare.

_(ontherun)_

"I'm sorry I laughed."

Glen sounded like anything but sorry. Maggie gritted her teeth and refused to respond. She wasn't sure what would come out of her mouth if she did.

"It was pretty funny, but I shouldn't have laughed," Glen added with a little sobriety at her non-response. It was like he could sense his impending doom.

Maggie just pinched the bridge of her nose and silently counted to ten, no, a hundred.

"At least I tossed the guppies back in the pond. I get points for that, right?" Glen opted to play on Maggie's sympathies. Too bad she didn't have any left.

Maggie didn't know what was kept that man back at the pond. She didn't really blame him for laughing, _hysterically,_ when she was hit by the wall of water out of the truck. Not even when he had to drop to one knee to catch his breath.

Maggie knew that they were a sorry sight and probably smelled worse than they looked. She was not a happy person and she intended to share. Maggie pounded the steering wheel and vented her frustration.

"Shee-niou, BUN tyen-shung duh ee-DWAY-RO FAY-FAY duh PEE-yen!" she screamed. "You didn't fill the tank and now we're out of gas!"

Glen stared at Maggie in amazement. "Did you just swear in Chinese? That is so hot."

It was nearly dark when an exhausted Glen and Maggie pulled up in the mud splattered truck. Glen had to backtrack to the vintage John Deere tractor to siphon enough gas to get them back to camp, while Maggie sat and fumed.

When they finally pulled up, Maggie had to bite her tongue not to scream at Glen again. Sitting on the ground, next to their empty parking place, was a five gallon can and the fuel cap to the truck.

Just beyond the gas can, a plume of flame rose into the sky.

"See! I told you this was a bad idea!"

_**tbc..**_

_AN: The Chinese swear words came from movie Serenity. The combination probably isn't correct, but it sounded great when I was typing! _

_I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Things are taking longer to reach the end than anticipated, so we aren't quite done yet. As always, please drop me a line and let me know your thoughts. I love hearing from you. **Thanks! Surplus**_

_Translations:_

_**Shee-niou - Cow sucking**_

_**BUN tyen-shung duh ee-DWAY-RO - Stupid, inbred stack of meat**_

_**FAY-FAY duh PEE-yen - Baboon's asshole**_


	11. The Law of Gravity

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1. **

**The Law of Gravity**

Carol leaned against her golf club crutch and tried not to use it on the other adults in the circle.

It had been a stressful couple of days and people had reached their limits. Lori and Hershel were going at it, toe to toe. The only thing really keeping them apart was Lori's pregnant belly.

"Oh, come on, Hershel. It's just a little Sharpie. It'll wear off in a couple of days," Lori argued, flinging her arms wide. "What's the big, damn deal?"

"A little Sharpie? My daughter looks like she's been to a tattoo parlor! Your son drew all over my Beth. Look at her. She looks like a harlot!" Hershel was livid.

"Daddy stop! I asked Carl to draw on me. It's only my arms. See?" Beth tried to intervene by interposing herself between the two fighting grown-ups. She was upset that their little slice of fun was causing so many problems.

"Stay out of this Bethy. This clearly isn't your fault," Hershel replied without looking at his daughter. He pushed her back behind him. "Go to your room," he ordered red-faced.

"I don't have a room," she complained, but her father didn't hear her. Dejected, Beth started to walk away to sit on her blanket. Surprisingly, Carl joined her. She supposed he wanted to get away from the arguing adults just the same. She wondered why he just didn't pull his normal disappearing act. Seemed like that happened practically twice a day.

"Sorry I got you in trouble," Carl said, kicking the dirt with his sneaker. His overgrown hair tumbled down over half his eyes. He looked like an overgrown puppy. Unfortunately, Beth liked puppies.

"I'm not," Beth said sincerely. "You're a pretty good artist and I had a lot of fun." Beth held out her arms to display the chain of brightly colored daisies Carl had drawn the length of both arms. "I'll wear long-sleeves until they fade and he'll forget all about it," she smiled tracing the petals, one by one. "Thanks Carl."

Carl took a furtive look at the arguing adults to make sure they were still occupied. Coast clear for the moment, he took his chance. "I'm glad you liked it, but I forgot to sign my name," he said with a cocky grin. Carl desperately hoped that Beth couldn't hear how hard his heart was pounding.

Beth gave him an assessing look. Carl might be way too young for her, but he would grow up one day. She liked his confidence and nerve, and today was the best day she had in a long time. She thrust out her hands and declared impishly, "In for a penny, in for a pound."

Carl quickly uncapped the red Sharpie and turned Beth's left arm over. On the smooth skin below her wrist, Carl quickly drew three tiny hearts and the letter C. He watched Beth smile at the signature and then smile at him. Stepping forward, she bent and placed a chaste kiss on his left cheek. Carl's heart beat overtime.

* * *

T-Dog grabbed a chair and tried to force Carol to sit. It had been obvious from the way she was standing that her knee was hurting again. Carol just pushed him away as she tried to defuse the escalating argument between Lori and Hershel. "Get Rick," was all that she would say. T-Dog sighed and turned to locate Rick on watch.

Rick had taken to walking the perimeter and checking Carl's trap line. So far, the snares had caught two more walkers, a fact that Rick and T-Dog were keeping from the others. They decided to split the camp. Rick took the outer edge watch, T-Dog the inner. When Glen and Maggie got back, they'd switch off.

T-Dog spun on his heel looking for Rick when he saw the hammock shoot up in flames. He could feel the burst of heat all the way over to where he was standing. The pyrotechnic blast looked like the time his idiot cousin, Ray, squirted an entire can of lighter fluid on an already lit BBQ grill. Total solar flare.

"Daryl!" T-Dog screamed, running for the flaming pyre. A split second later, the rest of the group stopped arguing and ran after him.

Daryl slapped at the flames spreading down his leg. The heat from the burning hammock was overwhelming. He had just about had it with this day! Dimly, he heard someone scream his name as T-Dog barreled into view. The big man dropped to his knees in a sliding stop and helped Daryl beat out the remaining flames. Then T-Dog leapt up and drug Daryl by the armpits well clear of the flames.

"Shwit! You 'bout wint up yourself," T-Dog exclaimed nasally and breathing hard.

Daryl clasped T's arm in gratitude. "Thanks man. I was about to do a Richard Pryor," he rasped. Together, they quickly peeled back the burnt bandages on Daryl's leg. Other than some singed leg hair, the flames hadn't gotten below the gauze. Underneath, the skin was only a little red, no worse than a sunburn. There were no blisters to be seen.

Daryl flung the burnt remains of the bandages to one side, as the rest of the group came skidding up. The press of concerned bodies was too much to handle. Daryl found himself scooting backwards, as T-Dog rose and explained what happened in his best broke-nose speech.

Levering up on a camp chair, Daryl made it to his feet and hobbled over to the nearest oak tree, the half burnt sweat pants still untied on his wounded side. Daryl quickly scoped out the best route up and made a leap for the lowest branch. It took two tries using only his good leg, but he caught the branch and pulled himself up. Used to a lifetime of tree climbing, Daryl flipped himself over the branch like a gymnast and swung up higher.

"What are you doing?" Carol asked from below. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Go away," Daryl grunted, climbing up to the next branch. The hanging pant leg snagged on a knot and ripped. Daryl swore under his breath and paused to tie up the gaping fabric.

"Come down," Carol pleaded. "Let me take a look at your leg. I want to make sure you're okay."

"No." Daryl didn't have breath to spare for more of that. He climbed up to the next fork and found a good, flat spot to sit on. The old oak seemed to cradle his tired body, as he settled in. This was a good a spot as any, and better than most.

"Daryl, please."

It was hard to ignore Carol's pleas, but Daryl was at his limit. "No," he said. "It ain't safe down there."

"It's not safe up there," she answered. "You'll fall asleep and fall." Daryl could hear the frustrated anger in her voice. Daryl would never admit to it, but he loved it when Carol threw her few fits of temper. They were a sight to see, as long as the anger wasn't directed at him. Considering all the crap that had happened today, Daryl wasn't going to take the chance that he was the target.

"Hell, Carol, I've been sleepin' in trees longer than most of ya'll have been alive," Daryl snorted, closing his eyes. "Ain't gonna fall." A nap sounded like a really good idea. The oak tree sang to him of home, with the whisper of wind through the newly sprouted leaves.

"Can you at least tell me when you are planning on coming back down?" Daryl could swear he could hear Carol grind her teeth. Yup, he was right. No way he'd go back down there now. Carol was scary when she was mad.

"In the morning," Daryl yawned. "Maybe."

* * *

"Where's Daryl?" Rick asked a fuming Carol after examining the charcoal remains of the hammock.

Carol simply pointed up from her place under the tree. After Daryl refused to come down, Carol settled herself at the base to wait him out.

"Are you sure he isn't burnt?" Rick asked, amazed. It was a good thing their resident redneck was quick on his feet. Anyone else would be ashes.

"He's fine. Cranky, but fine. Says he going to stay up there all night," Carol said crossly.

Rick started laughing, but faked a cough at Carol's angry expression. He cleared his throat and peered up the tree. Sure enough, about halfway up, he could see Daryl reclining at the fork of some branches. One leg was propped up, the other swung free. Rick could make out that Daryl was wearing fuzzy purple socks and his sandals. Rick shook his head at the odd sight.

"Daryl," Rick called up. "Come down." He peered up, expectantly, but nothing happened. "Daryl," he called louder. Still nothing. "Daryl!," he all but screamed.

"What!"

"We're worried about you. Come down." Rick lowered his voice to a more reasonable level and peered up the tree. Evening was setting in. In less than an hour, it would be too dark to see Daryl in the branches. He had to get him down now.

"I'm up here to get away from you people. Go away!"

Funny how Daryl's voice got more southern when he was yelling. Rick rubbed his forehead and tried to figure out what to say. He could just order the stubborn man down, but he didn't want to issue an ultimatum. Besides, it probably was safer for him to stay up in the tree. The man seemed to have a target painted on his back all day. Rick was about to just give up and walk away when Carol gave such an angry look that he physically quailed.

"It's not my fault he's up there," Rick said reasonably. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

Carol just stared at him until Rick sighed and turned back to the tree. "Seriously, Daryl," Rick called up loudly. "You need to come down."

Rick could hear Daryl snort derisively, even though he was at least fifteen feet up. After several silent minutes passed, Rick started to get angry. "Don't make me come up there after you. One way or another, something is going to come down," he threatened. Rick stared up expectantly. Something up there moved. Seconds later, a prickly object struck him solidly on the forehead.

"Damn it, Daryl! Did you just throw a pine cone at me?" Rick stepped back and rubbed fingers through his hair, easing the smarting prick. He checked his fingers a couple of times, but there was no blood to be seen.

"Shit falls outta trees, Rick. Thought you were smart enough to know that." Daryl's disembodied voice had just enough of a sneer to finish the job of pissing Rick off. "Ain't safe to stand under one, if you get my meaning."

"Pine cones do not fall out of oak trees," Rick said murderously. He decided to play dirty. "What if you had hit Carol? She's already hurt." This time Daryl laughed outright, not taking the bait. And it was not in a nice way. Irritated, Rick grabbed onto the tree, ready to climb up, when Carol latched onto his arm.

"Stop, please." she pleaded. "I'm afraid if you go up there right now, you'll both come flying down. Just...just give it a couple of hours. I shouldn't have asked you to get him down," she apologized.

Rick let go of the tree and backed up a step. "This is not your fault, Carol," he said pointedly to the depths of the tree as he stormed off.

Carol gave an audible sigh and looked up. "That wasn't very nice. Rick was only trying to help." She limped back over to her chair and sat back down, clearing not expecting a response. After a couple of minutes, she heard a whisper filter down in reply.

"I know. I'll make it right."

Carol sat a few more minutes waiting. She knew what was going to come next.

"I wouldn't have hit ya. Got better aim than that."

Carol looked up thoughtfully. She wondered if she could manage to climb up there, but decided she was too clumsy. So she did the next best thing. She called up softly, "I never had a moment's worry."

* * *

Rick stomped his way over to the rest of the group. Looked like Lori and Hershel had stopped fighting at least. Thank heaven for small mercies. Everyone was gathered around Glen and Maggie talking animatedly. Irrationally, that made Rick's anger at Daryl explode.

"It's almost dark. Where have you been?"' Rick barked, powering up and crowding Glen's space. The younger man flinched and stepped back with a confused and fearful look on his face.

"We ran into car trouble. A lot of car trouble," Glen backpedaled anxiously. "We found a ton of supplies, though. Practically everything on the list."

"Do you have any idea what's been going on here while you've been off joyriding?" Rick cocked his head and asked dangerously.

Maggie cut in, physically imposing herself between Glen and Rick. She was bristling in anger. Rick wondered why all the women in his life today decided to give him an attitude.

"We Had Car Trouble," Maggie stated, each word precise and emphasized. "It's not like we can call AAA anymore!"

Glen blinked at Maggie in surprise. He was both warmed and shamed by her interference. And, if he thought about more than a second, it made him angry that she didn't think he could handle Rick! Glen stepped around and inserted himself back in the middle. "The day lived up to it's reputation," he said flatly. "Heard that Daryl almost went up in smoke. Is he okay?" Glen's tone made the question sound like an accusation.

Rick took a step back and rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel his pulse throb in his tightly clenched jaw and he needed to regroup before he took Glen's head off. "I think so," he said with a forced calm. "He's up that big oak tree and won't come back down."

Behind Rick, he heard T-Dog snort with laughter. The noise broke through some of the anger Rick was feeling, making him feel ashamed of his actions.

"He threw a pine cone at me," Rick finished lamely. T-Dog's snort became a full-out laugh.

"It's not funny. His aim is really good," Rick finished sheepishly, rubbing his forehead.

* * *

Daryl felt like he would never get a moment of peace. He no sooner got up into that oak tree before Bloodhound Carol was hot on his retreating tail. Now she had him treed like a 'possum or a coon.

He reclined on his lofty perch and worked to convince himself that he was in the right. Well, except for nailing Rick on the forehead with a half-opened pinecone, Daryl thought with a grin. He ought to be sorry for that little bit of meanness, but he wasn't. It was just too damn funny. He promised Carol that he would fix it, and so he would. Eventually. Just as soon as he could keep a straight face while he apologized.

Daryl peered through the branches and saw that Glen and Maggie had returned. They sure had been gone long enough. Practically all day. Daryl wondered if they ran into trouble, or if they were off making-out somewhere. Probably the latter, he decided. Those two were a couple of bunnies. He watched Rick storm up to the young couple, and after a brief verbal dust-up, they all scattered.

He liked Glen. Genuinely liked the eager-to-please young man. Glen and Maggie made for an interesting couple, one that Daryl enjoyed watching. Their antics were almost always entertaining. At the very least, they always provided opportunities to poke fun. Glen was so whipped by his relationship with the brassy brunette, the opportunities abounded.

Daryl sighed, feeling out of sorts as he watched the group go about getting ready for the evening meal without him. He was up here to get a little space. He wanted space, didn't he? If so, why did he feel so isolated and, well, lonely? It didn't make any sense to him.

He and Merle sometimes didn't talk to each other for _days_. The demolition business always was feast or famine. When there was work, it was never ending. In between jobs, there wasn't much to do. Daryl was used to being alone in those times. He used to welcome the long days to melt into the woods and just be.

Daryl leaned over and peered down again. Yep, Carol was still sitting there, arms crossed. It didn't look like she was done being angry with him. He watched her from his perch until he saw T-Dog walk up carrying a cardboard box filled with stuff and some kind of basket.

* * *

T-Dog dropped Carol's requested items on the ground in front of her and gave a greeting, before he scaled the oak tree. He had a coil of rope loosely draped loosely across his broad chest.

"You move pretty good for such a big guy," Daryl drawled as T-Dog pulled himself up to a nearby branch.

"Auways have been good with the physicawl stuff," T-Dog replied with a grin.

Daryl gave T-Dog a once over. The big man's nose was still swollen and was covered with four Breath Right strips. He sported two black eyes as well. They were all purple and painful looking. Daryl watched T uncoil the rope and let it down. "Carol, can you tie that off," T-Dog called.

"You sound better," Daryl said noncommittally. He watched the rope lower with interest.

"Carwoo's idea. These stupid stripes actuwuwee hewp. Except the wells."

"The 'Ls'?" Daryl asked with a very small smile.

"Yep, Wells." T-Dog started pulling up the rope carefully. At the end was a small wire basket filled with a mug and a bowl. T-Dog carefully balanced the basket on a thick, fern covered branch and fished out a couple of pills out of his pocket. "It's just a coupwl of Advweel and antibiotic," he said handing them over.

Daryl took the pills and swallowed them down without question. He gratefully accepted the mug and took a sip. It was another warm mug full of honeyed yaupon holly tea. Daryl was very thirsty and gulped it down.

T-Dog shook his head. "We're not taking very gwood care of you. Should have brought you something to drink before this," he said regretfully.

"Ain't your fault. I can take care of myself," Daryl said eyeing the basket. "That bowl for me?" he asked hopefully.

"Don't get your hopes up. Wari cooked this," T-Dog cautioned as he pulled out the bowl of gray looking gravy over lumpy white stuff. "Squirewrl swop over mashed potatoes."

"I like squirrel and I like mashed taters," Daryl said eagerly accepting the bowl. "I'm so hungry my belly thinks my throat's been cut." He took a big bite and paused, looked at T-Dog and then swallowed. "What the hell did she use for seasoning?" he choked.

"Fish." T-Dog grinned at Daryl's reaction. "Don't worry. I aweady make Carwoo eat a bow. He hasn't barfed it back up yet, so I guess it's safe."

"Where the hell did she get fish?" Daryl sighed before digging back into the bowl. Food of any kind was not something to pass up. Merle always did say that Daryl could eat things that would make a Billy goat puke. Merle just never realized how scare groceries were when he wasn't home.

"Some mystery can of something," T shook his head. "It's no wonder Rick is so skinny the way his wife cooks."

Nodding, Daryl could only agree while scraping out the bowl with his spoon. "It's still better than sweet feed mash again."

"Amen to that, brother." T-Dog chuckled.

Daryl ran his finger around the bowl to get every last bit, before placing the empties back in the basket. He licked his fingers and glance at T-Dog sideways nervously. "I'm sorry you got your nose hurt. I was the one that pulled the tent down," he confessed.

Dog just nodded. Reaching over, he laid a hand on Daryl's leg. "And I'm sorry I accused you of doing drugs. I was wrong, man. Dead wrong," he said sincerely.

Daryl looked at T-Dog intently, then gave a tiny nod before looking away.

"I woo send up some water when I get down," T-Dog said lowering the basket and then handing Daryl the rope. "You gonna stay up here aw night?"

"Naw. Gonna have to piss before too long. Can't do that with Carol down there," Daryl grouched.

T-Dog just laughed while he climbed on down.

Carol nodded at T-Dog when he reached the ground and carried off the empty dishes. "I'll make dinner tomorrow," she promised him. Her half-eaten bowl of squirrel slop rested uneasily in her stomach.

"Daryl," she called up. "I couldn't finish my dinner. You want?" Carol spoke louder than she probably needed to. She didn't want Daryl to know that his and T-Dog's conversation had carried down to the ground. Not that it was easy to fool him as a general rule.

"You need to eat more," came a soft reply.

_So much for subterfuge._ "I can't," she replied. "Lori's a terrible cook." To that, Daryl laughed.

"I'll trade you," she offered. "The rest of my dinner for a couple of eggs? I spotted a nest up there earlier. Think you can reach it?" Carol peered up into the dimming light. A sudden fear took her. "Don't try if it's getting too dark," she cautioned. There was no reply.

Above her, Carol could hear a couple of grunts and could see some of the branches move. Her heart stopped suddenly when a sharp crack sounded from above, followed by a loud rustle of limbs. A flip-flop sandal fell from the tree and dropped into her lap.

"You okay?" she called out frantically, standing up. The shoe fell to the ground. "Daryl?"

"Hush, woman. A branch cracked a little. That's all. Gimme a minute. Found a good nest."

Carol huffed a sigh of relief and sat back down to make her box oven. It was so simple, she wondered that she hadn't thought of it before.

Daryl eased himself back down to his familiar tree fork, his legs shaking slightly. It had been a close call up there in the tree tops. He was too damn heavy for those upper branches and he knew it. One of the skinny limbs had broken under his weight and he had fallen a couple of feet before catching himself painfully on a lower bough. Somehow, he had managed to keep the three tiny eggs unbroken in his hand.

Taking a deep breath, Daryl pulled up the basket, thankful that Carol's attention was occupied. On her lap, Daryl saw a cardboard box. It appeared that she was lining it with tinfoil. Daryl cushioned the eggs on a pile of Spanish moss, then carefully lowered the basket down.

"Whatcha gonna do with them?" Daryl asked as the basket hit the ground.

Carol smiled back up at him, before setting the box down to switch the eggs with her bowl. "It's a surprise," she said. "A good one."

"We could all use that," he agreed, pulling up the congealed slop up with a grimace.

* * *

Daryl had just managed to choke down the rest of Carol's bowl, when he had another visitor.

"What the hell is that smell," he exclaimed, as Glen pulled himself up to Daryl's level.

"Maggie drove the truck into a stinky, scummy, slimy, frog-invested pond," Glen replied as he shook his head. "Really stagnant. I haven't had a chance to change."

Daryl sniffed at Glen, then sniffed at the empty bowl. The odor was much the same.

"Make time," Daryl declared, disgusted. But Glen didn't get the hint and leave. Instead he handed Daryl a water bottle looking forlorn.

Uncapping the bottle, Daryl drank the water down in noisy gulps. By the time he reached bottom, his thirst was finally quenched. "Something wrong?" he asked, giving a fishy belch.

Glen looked at Daryl and waved away the smell. Then he really looked. Daryl was still pale and looked exhausted, but his eyes were clear. It was obvious his friend was on the mend. He was still wearing his Dixon Demolition shirt, but the Georgia Bulldog sweat pants were clearly singed. "I heard about your spontaneous human combustion act. You okay?" he asked, concerned.

"Nothing spontaneous about it," Daryl quipped. "The old man dropped the bandages and they rolled into the fire. He was mad about Carl and Beth." Daryl stopped to rub at his leg a little. "Hershel has a slow fuse, but when it's lit there's no stopping him. Got to admire the old coot. He never backs down from what he thinks is right."

Glen couldn't help but agree. The whole Green family was that way. Outspoken and quick to defend each other. It was a big part of what he loved most about Maggie. It was also part of his problem.

"Something on your mind?" Daryl asked quietly. "What else happened today?"

Glen looked at Daryl and remembered their fireside chat. It had been so easy to talk about things. Glen quickly weighed his options and decided to take the chance. With a complete honesty, Glen told Daryl about everything that had happened that long, accident-prone day. He didn't leave anything out.

"And then she totally pushed herself between us and got right in Rick's face," Glen said despondently. "Does she think I can't handle myself? What's wrong with me?" Glen asked frankly.

"There ain't nothing wrong with ya, Glen. You just need to grow some balls," Daryl explained, matter of fact. "It's simple as that."

Glen stared at Daryl appalled. Here he opened himself up emotionally and Daryl had castrated him. "You don't think I can handle myself either," he said, hurt.

"What? No! I'm not good at this, damn-it," Daryl exclaimed. "I know you can handle things like walkers and shit. Maggie is the only thing you have a problem with. Let's face it, Maggie leads you around by the balls and you like it," Daryl explained. "You need to grow some different balls to stand up to your girlfriend. And knowin' Maggie, you're gonna have to grow them big," he finished.

"My balls are just fine," Glen huffed. "I don't see yours doing any tricks," he sputtered. "You and Carol dance around each other like you're both standing on a house of cards."

"There ain't nothing going on between me and Carol," Daryl hissed, quieting his voice lest they be overheard. "We're talking about you and Maggie. It's obvious she dotes on your skinny ass. I doubt she'll toss you over if you assert yourself. Man up and take a stand."

"Says the man who runs every time Carol even smiles at you," Glen retorted, stung. "You Daryl, are a relationship coward."

"Shut up," Daryl said appalled. If he could have backed up, he would have. All he could do was lean back.

"It's true," Glen accused, leaning forward to invade Daryl's retreating space. "It's obvious she dotes on _your_ skinny ass. Man up and take a stand," Glen mocked. "I doubt she'll toss _you_ over if you take a chance!"

Glen snatched up the empty water bottle and threw it to the ground. No doubt, the gesture was intended to be intimidating. Instead, the empty plastic rattled and pinged its way down the tree like a woodland pinball machine. As a result, both men snickered.

Glen gave an easy grin, relieved that the intense moment was over. Daryl had given him a lot to think on.

"Don't stay up here all night. You know how she'll worry," Glen said as he swung easily down a level. He didn't need to specify just who he meant.

"Talk to her," Daryl replied, also not specifying who he meant. Glen had given him a lot to think on and all of it terrifying. He considered his own descent. It was probably time to face the music. With a nod to himself, he followed Glen on down.

Glen was a few feet lower when Daryl smelled it. It was like nothing he had smelled in such a very long time. "What's that smell?" he asked himself out loud, swinging down a branch.

"I told you I haven't had a chance to clean up yet," Glen retorted as Daryl caught up to him on the same branch. "Give a man a break!"

"No," Daryl said, pausing. "Not your stinky self. That's...that's...," he trailed off as Glen stopped and sniffed as well.

After a couple of deep breaths, both men exclaimed, "Brownies!"

Right under their combined weight, the branch snapped and the law of gravity took over.

_**tbc...**_

_AN: Brownies! Can you just imagine how good warm brownies would taste a year after a zombie apocalypse? _

_I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Rick just wouldn't shut up when I kept telling him this chapter belonged to Daryl and Carol. Had to make him sit in a corner until I was done._

_I know I've said this before, but I think its true this time. Two chapters to go. I'm determined to finish by Christmas. Double brownie points to the person who can identify the movie line I quoted :) In fact, I'll send my personal brownie recipe to anyone who asks. I'm a good cook, as my hips can testify. :) _

_I hope you'll drop me a line and let me know what you think. _

_T__**hanks! Surplus Imagination.**_


	12. George of the Jungle

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

**George of the Jungle**

Daryl felt the limb crack and he reacted without thinking. It wasn't like this hadn't happened to him before. Daryl had lots of experience with gravity in the demolition business. Used it to his advantage most of the time.

This was not one of those times. The limb cracked and both men started to fall.

Once, Daryl and Merle had been hired to tear down an old church with a high steeple, to make way for one of those new multi-media churches. Merle being who he was, decided to have a little fun smashing out the little stained glass windows first. The little windows decorated the steeple like peepholes. Daryl had looked at the old art glass depictions of bible stories and felt a little sick at the destruction. He had climbed up to stop Merle and convince him that they should pull the antique glass out first, when the old wood gave and the two brothers fell.

It had been a long way to the floor.

Daryl, being who he was, never just gave up. Even as they fell, Daryl somehow managed to snag his brother's arm seconds before he somehow managed to latch onto a lower beam, stopping their fall. The stunt cost Daryl a dislocated shoulder and a round in surgery, but they both lived. Merle brought him all the unbroken glass windows in a cardboard box and together they took them to Meemaw's little Pentecostal church way out in the woods of Alabama. Daryl had sat in the blue-green grass with his arm in a sling and watched Merle install the glass circles all along the eaves.

Daryl wasn't thinking of that as he and Glen started to fall. He just reacted. Like a rattlesnake strike, he reached out and made a grab for Glen with one arm, while the other arm tried to find purchase along the trunk. The two men fell three or four feet before Daryl managed to hook another branch. He had a good grip on the limb. Unfortunately, he didn't have as good a grip on Glen.

Glen's arm was slimy with pond scum. The young Asian gave a cry of surprise at both the sudden fall and Daryl's sudden strike. The iron grip slid along his arm as the weight of his body kept pulling him down.

"Grab something," Daryl barked. He had a reasonable hold on the oak branch, but it wouldn't last under the combined weight of both men.

"What? Where?" Glen asked, looking frantically around. Below him was at least a twelve-foot drop. There was nothing nearby.

"Grab my leg," Daryl ordered as his hand slipped. "Need both hands or we're both going down!"

Glen nodded and reached out with his free hand toward Daryl, but the sweat pants the man was half wearing made for a slippery foundation. He couldn't find a grasp.

"Ain't gonna hold much longer!"

Glen heard the desperation in Daryl's voice and quickly calculated his chances on just dropping to the ground. It didn't look good. There would definitely be broken bones and Hershel would kill him. Then he had an idea. "Can you pull me up about a foot?" he asked upwards.

Daryl didn't answer. He just flexed and gushed out a growl. Miraculously, he managed to raise Glen up.

As soon as he could, Glen swung his legs around Daryl's uninjured one and wrapped his free arm around Daryl's waist. Daryl let go of Glen's sliding arm and secured his grip on the limb. Reflexively, he hooked his foot to provide a bracing point as the young man slid down, unable to hold on.

Glen held uncomfortably on, as best as he could. The sweat pants didn't leave much in the way of firm places to hold. He tried not to think too hard about what he was touching, as his body oozed down the length of Daryl's hard form. Just as it seemed that he would just slide off to plummet to the ground anyway, he felt Daryl hook his foot between his legs halting the fall. He gave out a sigh of relief.

"Thanks man," Glen called out gratefully, his face unfortunately pressed against Daryl's groin.

Daryl stiffened at the expected intrusion of his passenger. The sensation was awkward and unexpected. "Keep your mouth shut," he snapped. "I'm gonna swing us down." Daryl took a deep breath and rocked his lower body toward the a branch a few feet down and a bit over. He swung back out and gained momentum on the return. Judging the distance carefully, Daryl let go and let the two of them drop.

Glen let out a shrill, girly scream.

* * *

Carol smiled at her working box oven while licking a big spoon. Based on the heavenly aroma, it seemed to be working. The box oven was a simple contraption remembered from her days as a Girl Scout. Sophia was a Brownie for a while, until Ed complained about the disruption of attending meetings.

Her box oven was simply a cardboard box lined with tin foil. She used a tin pie pan to hold several chunks of glowing embers from the fire. Elevated by four empty cans, a tin with brownie batter rested above the coals. The box enclosed it all. Carol wished that she had been able to insulate the box with newspaper and duct tape, but things seemed to be working.

Carol languidly scraped at the batter bowl with her spoon and sucked at the leftovers. Rich chocolate taste roiled over her tongue. It was very good. Carol resisted the urge to purr.

"That smells so good!"

Carol turned to smile at Maggie as she approached. The younger woman looked freshly washed, her hair a mess of wet loose curls.

"Any left?" Maggie asked hopefully. She smiled wide when Carol slide the bowl over to her. Maggie swiped a finger deep in the bowl and came up with a glob.

"Carol, I swear, you are a miracle worker," Lori exclaimed as she joined the other two women. Maggie sucked on her finger and held out the bowl to Lori, who took it with glee.

"Just something I remembered from childhood. It does smell good, doesn't it," Carol said happily. She watched the two women clean out the bowl balanced on Lori's big belly. It had been a long time since they had such a treat. She didn't tell them that there was another box of brownie mix. She planned on squirreling it away for special occasion.

"This is almost better than sex," Maggie sighed and licked her lips.

"It's much better after sex," Lori amended. She gave the young woman a knowing look and elbowed her in a friendly way.

"Why, yes it is," Maggie smirked, taking a last lick.

The other two women sighed, each silently remembering just how long it had been for themselves.

"You were gone for a long time today," Lori continued. "I know you 'got lucky'. I just want to know just how many times," Lori laughed.

"Enough so that I won't looking for more for a while," Maggie countered, pulling up a couple of chairs for them all to sit. Lori took the bowl with her as she sat.

"With all the bad luck today, it's a wonder that you took a chance," Lori said with a muffled voice. The pregnant woman was deep into the bowl to get every last drop.

"A chance?" Maggie asked, confused.

"At ending up like me," Lori finished. The long-haired brunette seemed oblivious to the effect of her words.

Maggie stared at Lori slack-jawed. She had never considered such a thing. They had used protection, right?

Right?

Carol kicked Lori with her foot and glared when the woman looked up. Silently, the two older women had a complete argument about appropriate subject matters, without uttering a word. Carol won.

Feeling reproached, Lori turned to Maggie. "I'm sure everything is fine. Don't mind me. I'm just making conversation." Lori reached over to pat Maggie's knee but the woman seemed to be counting to herself using her fingers. Lori and Carol watched Maggie tick off six marks, wiggle her fingers to clear the imaginary count and tick off again. Six. Six. Six.

Carol felt very jealous. If she was reading this right, Glen and Maggie managed a marathon session lasting six rounds. All she had been able to score for herself was a bunch of innuendos and a decent grab at Daryl's backside.

Maggie stood up suddenly, a look of panic on her face. "I think I need to take another bath, " she said, circling her fingers on both temples. "I know we only had five condoms left in the box."

"A bath won't help now," Lori said, sympathetically.

Carol huffed and kicked her again, so which Lori sputtered out. "I'm sure it's all fine. Really."

Carol stood and moved to comfort Maggie. She sincerely hoped that the young couple hadn't outlasted their prophylactic boundaries. As she limped closer, Carol heard a high-pitched scream. All three women froze and looked toward the sound.

They all watched, astounded, as Daryl dropped down from one limb to another and then another with Glen wrapped around Daryl's leg. It was a bizarre parody of Tarzan and Jane. At the last drop, Glen seemed to slip off Daryl's leg and began to dangle.

Carol covered her mouth with her hands in alarm. She watched Daryl manage to snag the back of Glen shirt, arresting his fall, until Glen started to slide out of his shirt as well. Carol could see purple hickey marks decorating the expanse of Glen's smooth chest, as he hung by the rapidly stretching fabric. Carol rolled her eyes at the sight.

"Glen!" Maggie screamed, as she raced toward the tree.

"It's really not that far to the ground," Lori mused, giving the bowl a last lick. "He ought to just let go."

Carol only had eyes for Daryl. She could see the muscles in his arms straining. His pants were so low on his hips that they threatened to slip off. Irrationally, she wished that he was shirtless too. Why should Maggie get to have all the fun, she thought crossly.

Glen's shirt ripped and the young man fell with a small thump. Lori had been right. Glen hadn't been that far from the ground. Maggie flew over and started checking the sprawled man over. Above them, the limb gave a loud crack.

With a warning shout, Daryl dropped. Right on top of Glen.

* * *

Rick rubbed at his sore forehead, as he walked Carl's trap line. It was funny to him that he thought of it as a trap line, like he was part of some old episode of Daniel Boone. Rick always did like those old westerns. He always wanted to be like Marshal Matt Dillion from Gunsmoke. Rick used to imitate Dillion's walk and manner of speech when he first became a Sheriff's Deputy. Not even Shane knew that.

Circling the camp for the umpteenth time, Rick paused when he heard a reverberating crack, followed shortly by a shrill scream. He wasted no time running headlong back into camp, gun drawn just like Marshal Dillion's.

What he found was a bare-chested Glen lying flat on his back with a heavily breathing Daryl lying on his back, directly on top of Glen. Both men's arms were thrown wide to each side. Maggie was on the ground, a few feet away.

"Is everyone okay," Rick gasped as he slid to a stop. He looked frantically around for walkers, or blood, or other mayhem. Nothing seemed dangerous on the ground. Glancing up, Rick noticed the half-broken branch maybe ten feet directly above the two fallen men. It didn't take long to put the whole scene together.

"Peachy keen," Daryl said breathing hard. "Had a nice, soft Asian to land on. You okay, Geronimo?"

Glen just raised one thumb up, before flopping his hand back down.

"I guess shit does fall outta trees, Daryl," Rick quipped. "Here's your pine cone back." With that, Rick pulled the green pine cone out of his pocket and dropped it directly onto Daryl's forehead.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Daryl growled rubbing at his forehead, as Rick walked back to the trap lines, laughing.

Maggie rolled up onto her knees and crawled over. "You okay, Babe?" she asked concerned.

"Fine," came the muffled reply from under Daryl's back.

Maggie sat back on her legs and used both arms to shove Daryl off of Glen's prone form. "Move your ass, Daryl!" she shouted. Daryl obliged by rolling off the other side. Truth be told, Glen wasn't all that soft. Daryl's back was aching from the fall. He rolled up onto one elbow and checked the younger man out. Glen wasn't indestructible like Merle. Daryl was worried that he had flattened him.

Maggie was running her hands all over Glen's body making soft, comforting sounds. Glen was ineffectually trying to stop her by pushing away.

"You're going to have a big bruise come morning, George."

Daryl looked up to see Carol smiling down at him. She was leaning heavily on the golf club. Daryl could see that it was Taylormade graphite pitching wedge. He approved. Those clubs had a really nice grip. Carol would have no problem switching from using it as a cane to bashing some walker heads.

"George?" Daryl looked up, completely confused.

"Yeah, George of the Jungle." Carol tapped Daryl's chest with the head of the club.

Daryl laughed, batting the club away. "Watch out for that tree!"

"Exactly," Carol smiled. "Tell me you're okay," she finished.

"I'm just fine," Daryl chuckled as he rolled back onto his back. "As long as you didn't burn those brownies. The smell is distracting as hell."

"My brownies!" Carol jumped, distressed. She turned quickly away hobbling back toward her box oven. "When you can get yourself up, come over and let me check your hands. Don't think I didn't see you rip them up on that tree."

"Bossy," Daryl yelled back. He stared up at the dimming tree top and wondered if he could get up. _Might be safer to just lay here on the ground._ Daryl examined his torn and bleeding palms for a few seconds before dismissing them in favor of feeling his forehead for a lump.

"Need help up?"

Daryl looked up to Carl's freckled and Sharpie mustachioed face. The boy was smiling at him through his mop of shaggy hair. If Daryl squinted a little, he could make out the beginnings of a little real facial hair just under the boy's chin. Carl was growing up.

"Depends. You gonna drop something on me like your old man?" he asked, fingering his forehead again.

"Depends. You gonna get mad that I looked through your saddle bags?" Carl answered giving an exact reproduction of Rick's trademark look.

Carl could give as good as he got. Daryl respected that, even from a thirteen, no, twelve-year-old.

"So you found your birthday present, huh?" Daryl asked, crossing his arms behind his head. "And I don't mean the paper kind."

Carl flopped down cross-legged next to Daryl and pulled out a sling-shot. "You mean this?" he asked. "This is so sweet!"

"Merle gave one of those to me when I was a kid. Said it would strengthen my arms and improve my aim. Course, his idea of target practice involved shooting out windows and running like hell," Daryl said, pushing himself to sit up.

"I bet we could find some windows and try it out. I'm a fast runner." Carl examined the sling-shot with reverence.

"Breaking windows make too much noise. You best let me check it out before you go and pull a little Merle on me," Daryl said as he ruffled Carl's hair. "You can have that early as long as you nail at least one squirrel every day."

'Really?" Carl asked breathlessly. He pickup up the sling-shot and pretended to shoot at things until the tubular band snapped back and popped him on the back of the hand.

"Bout time you earned your keep." Daryl chuckled. "I want you to start with that cheeky bastard up there," he said pointing up in the oak tree. "Damned varmint was the first one to drop that pine cone on my head. I want you to return the favor."

"Sure thing," Carl agreed, sucking at the back of his reddened hand. "Daryl?" he asked after a moment. "You're a guy, right?"

Daryl looked at Carl sideways. "You best not be asking me relationship advice," he scoffed.

"How'd you know I was going to ask?" Carl wanted to know. He scooted a little closer to Daryl.

"I know everything," Daryl told him knowingly. He scooted a little away.

"Prove it," Carl challenged. "Who was the sixteenth president of the United States?"

"Ain't got to prove anything. Abraham Lincoln," Daryl threw back.

"Who is Naruto's biggest rival?" Carl asked shrewdly. He gave Daryl a calculating look.

"Magna, or anime?" Daryl hedged with a well-played bluff. He had only a vague notion of what Naruto was.

"What's the difference? Aren't they the same?" Carl obviously didn't know. Daryl was banking on the fact that Carl hadn't ventured past any possible TV version.

"Nope," Daryl lied with a smirked. He didn't win Merle's Triumph in a poker game for nothing.

"That was too easy. Anyone could know that. What color is my underwear?" Carl snapped his fingers at his own cleverness. He was sure he had Daryl now!

"I can't exactly tell through that big brown skid mark you got going all down the backside." Daryl guessed, remembering his own teen years.

"How'd you know that?" Carl was mystified and a little grossed out. Part at being caught with dirty underwear and part that Daryl might actually know about it.

"Told you, I know everything," Daryl winked, feeling confident.

"Then tell me, does Beth like me?" Carl was all ears and wide eyes.

_Shit. Caught in his own trap. _

"Told you, I don't do relationship advice," Daryl said flatly, gesturing with one flat hand. "I am as wrong a person to ask this, as just about anyone on earth," he admitted.

"Why? Isn't Carol your girlfriend? Don't you have a relationship with her?" Carl asked sincerely. "I saw what she did when you two fell off the hood of the truck. Girls do that kind of thing to their boyfriends."

"What is with everyone? Me and Carol ain't got nothin' going on. Friends, we're just friends." Daryl's brow furled as he tried to think about what Carl meant.

"That didn't look like 'nothing' to me," Carl smirked back. "Guess you don't know everything."

"What happened? When?" Daryl's head started to pound in rhythm of his rapidly souring stomach.

"Trade ya," Carl offered, extending his hand out to shake. "I'll tell you what Carol did, if you tell me what you think about Beth."

Outmaneuvered, Daryl gave Carl a long look and reluctantly shook his hand. With a sigh, he offered up what little, piss-poor advice he could muster.

"Beth is a fine girl and for what it's worth, I think she likes ya," Daryl started. Carl brightened and started to cut-in when Daryl put a firm hand on his shoulder. "But, and I really mean but, you got to do some growing before Beth is going to take you seriously. She's got nearly four years on you, and while that don't mean jack-shit when you are twenty, it means everything at your age. "

Carl started to droop and sag. Daryl shook his shoulder again.

"You work that sling shot every day until you can hit everything you aim at. Once you do that, I'll help you make a bow and your own arrows," Daryl concluded as he worked himself to his feet.

"That didn't make any sense," Carl whined. "I think you're saying that she likes me, but I'm too young. Then you switch to wiping out the squirrel population. You were right. You do suck at relationship advice," Carl sighed and stood up effortlessly.

"You ain't always gonna be too young. You got to be able to keep her once you got her." Daryl yanked the sling shot out of Carl's back pocket and slapped it back into Carl's hands. "Learn to how to keep her," Daryl finished, feeling like he had just run a marathon.

Carl considered Daryl's words carefully with a nod. "Carol felt you up when the two of you slid off the truck onto the ground. She got a real handful," Carl said meeting Daryl's eye. "For what it's worth, I think she really likes you." Carl paused before continuing. "Also for what it's worth, I was wrong. You don't suck at giving relationship advice." Carl stuck the sling-shot back in his pocket. "Thanks Daryl," he said as he ran off.

Daryl heaved a sigh as he started hobbling toward the group gathered around Carol. He had no idea what to do with the information Carl just gave him. He had no idea what to think. The whole thing made him intensely uncomfortable. He was terrified of change. Things never changed for the better.

Feeling like an old, crippled man, Daryl groaned as he bent to retrieve his missing sandal. His back hurt, his mangled hindquarters throbbed and now his palms stung something fierce. He wanted to go to Carol and be quietly fussed over. She never made a huge deal, just took care of things. It was a piece of home he never knew he missed until now.

Daryl flip-flopped his way over to the back of the group, still holding one sandal in his hand. He stood at the very back of the group trying to peer over everyone's shoulders. Daryl always felt like he was on the outside looking in.

"Hey, Darwool! I got a chair for ya right here." T-Dog's voice floated over the crowd.

The group parted a little and made room for Daryl to stump through. Right next to Carol was another camp chair with a folded towel on the seat. It was right in the middle of everything. Daryl dipped his head and shuffled to slowly lower his tired self onto the pile of cloth. Before he could even look up, another towel dropped on his lap followed by a shallow pan of warm water.

"Soak your hands in that and I'll take a look in just a minute," Carol promised. "I'll save you a big brownie if you do."

Daryl dutifully lowered his hands into the warm water, wincing ever so slightly at the sting. He watched as Carol carefully opened her cardboard box oven and removed a pan of brownies using another towel. Behind her, Rick produced a folding card table and popped the legs out. He righted the table just in time to receive the pan. Beth came bustling into the crowd bearing the stack of plastic bowls that usually held their daily meals.

Carol deftly made five cuts, dividing the brownies into nine pieces. Using a spatula, she quickly served each piece into a separate bowl. As soon as the brownies hit the bowls, their respective owners snatched them and started gobbling hot brownies.

"Don't burn yourselves!" she chided the greedy crowd with a small smile. Turning to Daryl, she plunked his usual, blue bowl down next to him and pulled one of his hands out of the water.

"You didn't leave any for yourself," Daryl said in a low voice. "You only cut nine and there are ten of us."

Carol turned Daryl's hand over and started to dab at the scrapes. "Oh, there are plenty of crumbs left in the pan. I've got dibs on those." She set the towel aside and broke of a corner of Daryl's brownie and popped it in her mouth. "And I can always steals yours," she teased.

"Thief," Daryl said mildly. He pulled his other hand out of the pan and flicked water at her. He pretended to reach for his bowl, but instead stole one of the crumbs from the brownie tin. He was relieved to see plenty of thick bits scattered. Daryl popped the warm crumb into his mouth and savored the rich chocolate taste as Carol smacked his thieving arm and snatched his hand back. He let his eyes wander over the group, his group, as Carol nimbly picked the slivers of wood out of his skin.

"You know, all the bad luck we've had reminds me of a song on that old TV show Daddy used to love," Maggie mused picking at her bowl. She was sitting on the ground between Glen's parted legs. Glen looked freshly washed and none the worse for his tree-top adventure.

"Which one," Beth asked, licking her fingers. Daryl noticed the colorful flowers drawn all over both arms. He thought it looked right pretty.

"That one with the banjo guy. I can't remember his name," Maggie yawned. Around them all, the sky was growing dark.

"Hee Haw," Hershel added. "And that was great television."

"I remember that show. It used to run, or rerun on Sundays when I was a kid," Rick added as he joined the group and took his own bowl. T-Dog gave the man a pat and headed out on patrol.

Daryl remembered that show, too. It had made him want to try learning the banjo, but he never had a chance. He did okay with a guitar, though.

Carol gave a small laugh as she finished bandaging Daryl's scrapped hands. "Roy Clark and Buck Owens," she said. "I remember that song."

"I remember it now, too," Beth grinned. She moved over next to Maggie and sat beside her sister. The two girls started singing at the same time. Their sweet voices playfully blended in the spring air.

"Gloom, despair and agony on me."

"Deep, dark depression, excessive misery."

"If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."

"Gloom, despair and agony on me."

_**Tbc…**_

_Sorry for the delay. I was overwhelmed by the holidays. Family came to visit, ate way, way too much, ran a half marathon and didn't have a moment to write. Have to say it was a great time _

_If you don't remember the old country variety show, Hee Haw, you can see Buck Owens and Roy Clark sing this silly song on YouTube. _

_Last chapter coming up. I'll be sad to see it go. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. I hope you'll drop me a line and tell me so – Surplus Imagination_


	13. On The Road Again

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.**

**AN: **_GG, thanks for all the wonderful comments. Log in this time so I can thank you properly!_

_And that goes ditto for NanC, Pipergirl07, , Krgrahh, Laura and everyone posting under Guest. I'd love to reach you all personally. Thanks for dropping me a line!_

**On the Road Again...**

_Twack_

"Dammit Carl, I told you be careful!"

"Sorry, Dad."

Carl looked toward the other side of the tree and saw his dad rubbing the top of his head. Carl wondered if the rock had dropped on his head, or something else from the tree. Shrugging, Carl pulled a couple more small rocks from his pocket and shot them up into the tree tops. A small, brown squirrel taunted him from a lofty perch.

_Twack_

_Twack_

_Twack_

"I don't think you're going to hit it from here. Look, he's higher up. I swear he's laughing at you." Beth joined him. She shaded her eyes as she peered upwards. Carl noticed that Beth wore a faded yellow, short-sleeved shirt. The colored daisies were completely visible. Carl grinned to himself and aimed his slingshot again.

_Twack_

"I need some more rocks. Look around," Carl said, looking around himself. He saw most of the adults breaking camp, packing bags. All except Daryl, who was sound asleep in the same chair as last night.

Beth gave Carl a nudge. "I've got some in my pocket. Here." The young blonde held out a handful of nicely rounded stones. Carl figured that she got them from the stream since they were so smooth.

"Thanks. You wanna try?" Carl gallantly offered.

Carl's Sharpie mustache bunched when he smiled. Beth liked the silly thing. "And miss your Hunter Extraordinaire premier? Nah, I'll watch," she said, returning the smile.

"Prepare to be wowed."

_Twack_

_Twack_

_Crash! _

"Carl! If you break one more thing, I'm going to draw that circle so small that you'll have to stand on one foot to fit!"

"Sorry, mom." Carl looked anything but sorry.

_Twack_

_Twack_

_Twack_

"I can't believe that your mom and dad are just yelling at you. My dad would have me writing Bible verses, over and over and over. Don't they ever do more than yell?" Beth was privately amused, but outwardly disapproving.

_Twack_

"Naw. They both believe that I have to make my own mistakes. I'm supposed to learn from them, or something." Carl held out his hand for more stones. Taking them, he moved around to the other side of the tree and took aim again.

_Twack_

_Twack_

"Does it work?" Beth honestly wanted to know. She felt her pockets and wondered if she should go and get some more stones.

"What do you think?" Carl's last shot ricocheted off a branch and came right back at them, striking a little puff of smoke from the dirt. Beth looked worried as Carl lined up his aim again.

_Twack_

"I think you need to rewrite practically the whole new Testament!" Beth admonished. "That one was closer."

_Twack_

_Twack_

"Carl?" Beth was getting a little bored watching Carl miss the squirrel. She was starting to feel a little sorry for the furry rodent. Squirrels were pretty cute. Too bad they were a least a little tasty.

_Twack_

"Huh?"

_Twack_

"Tell me why you're doing this again? Why that particular squirrel?" Beth started to build a case in her mind for squirrel clemency. She pulled a lock of hair into her mouth and chewed.

_Twack_

"Cause Daryl asked me to." _Twack_ "Holy shit! Did you see that? I hit him!" Carl exclaimed in delight. Both kids watch the struck squirrel drop like a rock directly onto Daryl's lap. The impact woke the sleeping man up. Beth and Carl both stifled a giggle as the groggy man examined the dead creature with a puzzled expression on his face.

"Carl! You can't talk like that! What if your mother heard?" Beth snickered. She followed Carl over to Daryl.

"This your handiwork?" Daryl asked, wiggling the carcass at the boy.

"Yup!" Carl replied proudly, taking his first hunting kill. The small body felt warm and flexible. It was elating and a little disturbing to know he was responsible. Sure, he had skinned squirrels and other animals that Daryl had brought back. He had been doing that for some time. But those had all been cold and long dead. Daryl must have seen something in his face because the man unexpectedly gave him a friendly slap on the arm.

"My first kill was a rabbit. I was probably six, or so. Used a slingshot, just like you. Pawpaw helped me skin it and fried it up for dinner. Made a big deal about it. I think that was 'bout the only time my old man was proud of me," Daryl mused.

"Pawpaw?" Carl asked. "I'm guessing that was Meemaw's husband? You sure have some silly names for your grandparents."

Daryl just snorted in agreement. "If you fetch my knife, I'll help you skin that squirrel. Then we'll ask Carol to fry it up for dinner."

"How about you skin it, and I'll go get us some more," Carl counter offered. "I think we aren't leaving until this afternoon." Carl didn't wait for Daryl's answer. He just shot off like a rocket taking the squirrel with him.

Daryl turned his attention to Beth. "We leavin'?" he asked.

"That's what my Dad said. Sometime this afternoon, after Maggie and Glen get back," Beth answered. "Carol is down at the creek soaking her sore knee," she added helpfully. "She might like some company."

Daryl nodded and started to lever himself out of the chair. He was stiff and sore and his head was foggy from too much sleep. He didn't even complain when Beth reached over and helped tug him to his feet.

"Thanks," Daryl nodded. "I like your flowers," he said, gesturing at her decorated arms.

"Me, too." Beth smiled brightly at Daryl and gave a little wave as she walked away.

"Good to see you standing. How's the leg?"

Daryl turned greet Rick with a nod. "Healing," he replied, honestly. "Hear we're leaving today. I'll get my gear together."

Rick gave Daryl a once over. The man looked better. "Can you sit the bike? How's your hands?" Rick tossed a can of peas directly at Daryl, who caught it with ease.

"This my breakfast?" Daryl asked. His palms stung a little, but he kept that to himself. He knew why Rick had thrown the can at him. His hands weren't too bad.

"Only if you don't like biscuits," Rick replied with a grin. He was relieved that Daryl was doing so well. "Carol made some in that cardboard oven of hers."

"Hell. Outta my way, Grimes," Daryl smirked, tossing the peas back. "We still got honey?" He and Rick made their way back toward the center of camp. Daryl was only limping a little.

"Make sure Hershel checks you out before too long. I want to make sure you are healed enough to travel," Rick ordered, as he walked away.

"Yassir, Marshall Dillion," Daryl tossed sarcastically back over his shoulder, as he stumped his way over to the fire.

Rick spun and started hard at Daryl's retreating form. Daryl always had been more perceptive than Shane. Rick gave a chuckle to himself and swaggered away.

Lori handed Daryl his blue bowl the moment he approached. "I had nothing to do with this meal," she said happily. "I'm a crappy cook." Damn, if the woman didn't seem chipper about that fact. Daryl figured it was one way Lori managed to get out of some of the cooking.

The bowl contained four dark colored biscuits, liberally covered in honey. Daryl picked one up and took a tentative bite. It was actually good, in a chewy whole grain way. He shoved the rest of the biscuit in his mouth with relish.

"Carol made a rough flour out of the sweet feed using that old coffee mill. Sure tastes better than the hot cereal," Lori said as she moved back to her packing. Her long hair was done up in a rough bun. Soft wisps of hair escaped and trailed down her neck. Daryl could see how Rick was attracted to her. She was a pretty woman. He didn't much like her before, but he was alright with her now that she was carrying his niece or nephew. Daryl chewed noisily and considered the bulge of her stomach. _Uncle Daryl_, he thought again.

Lori gave Daryl a sly look as she picked up an empty crate. "Carol's soaking her knee in the stream. You ought to take your breakfast out there and join her," she added. "Glad to see you better, Daryl."

Daryl stuffed a second biscuit into his mouth as he shuffled on the other side of the campfire, well out of Hershel's sight. He had enough pokin' and proddin' for a long damn time. He didn't want to get anywhere near the vet until there it was time to leave.

So, more because of avoiding Hershel than because Lori suggested it, Daryl found himself shuffling toward the creek, licking honey off his fingers as he went. He wondered if he could cajole Carol into making another batch of biscuits.

* * *

"I think there's some carrots over there. Make sure you don't leave any," Maggie ordered sharply. "And stay the hell away from that porcupine we saw earlier. I don't want to go through that again!"

Glen rolled his eyes at Maggie's grouchy behavior. He would have thought she'd been more mellow, considering the 'workout' they had yesterday. Glen paused from his digging to bask in the remembered afterglow. Maybe he ought to work his magic again.

"What the hell are you doing, lolly-gaggin around like you don't have a care in the world!"

Maggie appeared right in his face, snarling. The spring day had turned unseasonably warm. They were both sweating heavily, while digging up every last edible item from the garden Daryl and Glen had discovered that first day. Glen followed the falling track of a sweat bead down Maggie's fine neck, into the valley of her cleavage.

"My eyes are up here," Maggie snapped her fingers at eye level.

"But mine are down here," Glen responded playfully. He forward to tug at the neckline of her shirt when Maggie slapped his fingers sharply.

"Wait a minute," Glen snapped back, shaking his stinging fingers. "When I said no sex in the truck, you just kept on teasing until you got your way. I didn't smack you like that. What's got into you?"

"Nothing." Maggie's face crumpled from anger to upset. Glen was astounded to see her choke back tears. "Let's just get this garden cleared and hit the house. I just want to get done." Maggie wiped at her face and snatched up the hoe. Glen promptly snatched it back

"What's wrong?" Glen asked, concerned. "Tell me." He reached out to run his hand down Maggie's arm in comfort, but she leapt at him instead, arms wrapping around for a tearful kiss. Glen dropped the hoe trying to keep the two of them from tumbling to the ground. "Stop," he insisted. Glen grabbed both of Maggie's arms and held her off. "Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. I don't want to play that game. Is it...is it that, you know, time of the month?" Glen honestly wanted to know.

Maggie startled him with a forceful push. She turned and ran toward the ramshackle farmhouse sobbing. Not just a little angry crying, but full blown sobs. Glen hesitates only long enough to grab the shotgun off the ground and ran after her. It tooks seconds to catch up. Glen ran in front of Maggie and raised both hands to slow her down.

"We haven't cleared the house yet. Are you crazy?" Glen snapped, very much afraid.

Tears running down her cheeks, Maggie was a mass of apology. "I didn't think. I'm so sorry." Maggie wiped at her eyes and tried to get a hold of her emotions. "I'm fine. I don't know what came over me."

Glen blew and exasperated sigh and set down the shotgun. Stepping forward, he raised the bottom of his shirt and wiped his girlfriend's face tenderly. When he had cleared the tears, he held the shirt bottom up to her nose and ordered her to blow.

"But you'll have snot on your shirt," Maggie protested. Her red-rimmed eyes were grateful.

"What's a little snot?" Glen soothed. "I'm here for you, even if it's to be a handkerchief. I love you." He held up the shirt again, and this time, Maggie blew. Glen tried not to notice just how wet his shirt had gotten with that action. When Maggie giggled afterwards, Glen knew that he had made the right move.

"I don't have my period," Maggie said, a little regretfully. "That's the problem." Glen was so sweet. He was nothing like the many boys she had dated over the years. Maggie realized suddenly why none of those boys ever held her attention past a couple of dates.

"I don't understand," Glen answered. He took her hand because he didn't know what else to do. "Why is that a problem?" Girls were so confusing. No wonder he never had a steady girlfriend before. He certainly didn't know how to act.

"Because we had sex at least six times and the condom box only holds five." Tears welled up in Maggie's eyes again as she admitted what was wrong.

"It was more like eight times," Glen tried to joke. "Supernerd stamina, remember?" He lifted Maggie's chin up and gave her a tender kiss on the lips. "I had a condom for each time. No worries."

"But the box I brought only had five," Maggie protested. She had been wrong. Glen was not sweet. He was dense. Obviously. "Five! Not six, and certainly not eight!" She pushed him away and started pacing, upset again. "Why do I put myself in these positions? Stupid, stupid, stupid," she muttered to herself.

Glen let his arms drop helplessly to his side. How could she not trust him? Here she was, tearing herself up over imagined pregnancy from guessed-at, unprotected sex, all from a situation she instigated and insisted upon. And he was pretty sure she just called him stupid under her breath. Glen stared at her pacing figure in astonishment.

Then he got pissed.

Daryl had been right. He did need to grow some balls. Just the right, big, Maggie-proof kind. Glen just hoped they wouldn't turn into blue balls.

"Maggie," Glen said firmly. He gave the landscape a quick check, spinning on his heels. All was clear. Oh course, a couple of wayward walkers would be the least of his problems right now. He turned his attention back on the panicking love of his life. She was quietly crying again. Glen steeled himself against melting into a puddle of sympathy, right there at her feet.

"Maggie," Glen said louder, with more grit. "Maggie!"

"What!" Maggie shot back, annoyed. "I heard you the first time." How could he not understand why she was so upset?

"You're not pregnant," Glen declared. "I used a condom every time."

Maggie shook her head vigorously. "That's not possible. I only had five in the box." She laughed and pulled at her hair wildly. "I guess we'll just have to hope for the best." Maggie turned to storm back to the garden .

Glen caught her arm and stopped her. Thankfully, she didn't pull away. "You aren't listening!" Glen yelled. "Dammit, Maggie. I'm telling you that it was safe."

"But the box," Maggie flung back, pulling her arm away, "only had five." She took one step away when Glen exploded.

"Sit!"

And Maggie sat.

Without even thinking about it, Maggie dropped onto the ground and looked at Glen, stunned. It wasn't that she was afraid, she just had never seen him so adamant. A little shiver went down her spine as she watched him spew a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush, in two languages no less. It was kind of impressive. When Glen ran out of air, he took a deep breath and let it back out slowly. Then he turned back to her.

"You aren't the only person who has a box of condoms. I have a huge stash." Glen made a big, sweeping gesture with his hands. "Huge!"

Maggie opened her mouth to say something, but stopped at Glen's imperious gesture.

"But this isn't really about condoms. It's about trust." Glen stopped again and looked Maggie directly in the eye. "It's about you trusting me. I promised you that I would keep you safe. That includes making sure that we get to choose when, and if, we want to have kids."

"How was I supposed to know you have a _huge_ stash of condoms," Maggie spat out, feeling a little ashamed at her outburst. "You could have told me."

"I did try, but you didn't want to listen." Glen threw his hands out in frustration. "You think because you can blow in my ear and get me to do whatever you want, I'm some kind a sex-driven moron."

"That's not true!" Maggie protested. "You don't always do what I want!"

"But you do think I can be led by my crotch," Glen huffed.

"You're a guy," Maggie shrugged. "I know how guys work." She was feeling more and more ashamed by the minute. "I don't think you are a moron."

"I'm not like most guys. In case you haven't noticed, 'most guys' are long dead." Glen dropped to the group in front of Maggie. He took up her hand and kissed it. "I promised I would keep you safe. Trust me."

Maggie nodded, not sure what to think. "I do trust you. I'm sorry I wasn't listening."

Glen smiled and hopped to his feet. He reached down to help Maggie up.

"And I promise to stop trying to lead you around by the crotch," Maggie promised, brushing the dried grass from her pants. She gasped when Glen suddenly snatched her up and pulled her flush against his body.

"Don't do that. I like your vixen routine," Glen said rather intensely. "You have no idea how much work I put into setting those situations up," he breathed right against her neck.

Maggie closed her eyes at the feel of Glen's mouth whispering up and down her neck. It felt simply wonderful. Until what he said actually registered. "Are you telling me that set me up?" she asked, tensing. "That you say no, just so I will try and convince you?"

It was Glen's turn to look abashed. "Maybe a little," he said meekly.

"That is so hot," Maggie flared, and leapt at him again. Together, they tumbled to the ground, a tangle of limbs. "Just how big a stash is 'huge'?" she asked.

Glen answered her with a searing kiss.

* * *

Daryl stopped at his motorcycle to peel off the fuzzy, purple socks and grab a clean change of clothing. He figured after checking on Carol's knee, he would clean up at the creek.

The day promised to be warm and fine. It was a good day to hit the road again. Grimacing at the damp feel of his boots, Daryl opted to make the short walk to the creek barefoot. The feel of the grass and pine straw under his toes a good one. Daryl rolled everything in a ratty towel and got on his way.

He felt pretty good, all things considered. The deep ache in his hindquarters greatly lessened. Daryl sucked at the remnants of honey on his fingers as he rounded the bushes and stepped into the little clearing. Then he froze, fingers still in his mouth.

Centered in the small creek, just under the tiny waterfall with its cascading bubbles, was Carol. The silver-haired woman was standing in the deepest part of the creek, submerged to her hip and completely naked. At least, Daryl quickly assumed she was naked based on the fact there was nothing on her back.

Not a single thing.

Well, except for dappled sunshine and tiny beads of water.

Not that he was looking.

Damn, but he wanted to look.

Daryl mentally slapped himself and forced his eyes respectfully down. Carol deserved better than this. If he was careful, he should be able to back away without Carol thinking he was some kind of Peeping Tom pervert. Daryl took a step back and froze again. Only this time for a different reason.

The moment Daryl stepped back, he hear a warning rattle. The sound was distinctive and clear.

Rattlesnake. From the sound of it, a big sucker, too!

Daryl kept his body motionless, while looking frantically around for the threat with his eyes. There, not three feet from his bare feet lay a coiled Eastern Diamondback rattlesnake, pissed and ready to strike.

Daryl slowly reached for his knife sheathed at his hip and came back with a handful of nothing. His knife was rolled into the towel, along with his regular clothes, all firmly tucked under his arm. Daryl clenched his jaw and held back the curses, while he debated the risk of throwing the ball of clothing versus getting bit for his trouble. This had to be the first time he had been caught essentially unarmed since the end of the world.

A big splash drew his attention away from the snake. Daryl flicked his eyes up to catch sight of Carol leaving the creek. He watched, wide-eyed, as a completely naked Carol limped over to her pile of clothing.

Daryl tried not to stare. He really did, but he just couldn't help it. Carol was on the skinny side, rib and hip and collar bones showing. They had all lost a lot of weight. What Daryl hadn't realized was that Carol had a decent amount of muscle under her habitually baggy clothes. Long, lean muscle graced the length of her straight back and gave structure to her legs.

But those features weren't the ones that captured most of his attention.

With a flush of surprise, Daryl watched Carol pass over her clothes and pick up the Taylormade graphite pitching wedge. Time slowed down as he watched her limp quietly toward him, wedge raised high over her head read to strike. Daryl shook his head minutely and opened his mouth to tell her to get away.

After all, Daryl figured Carol had a snowball's chance in hell of striking that rattlesnake just right on the head. And with nothing between those fangs and her skin but air, she was destined to get bit. He'd be damned if he'd let that happen. Daryl tensed his muscles and got ready to jump in between. He was stopped by a single look.

Carol figured out what he was going to do, probably seconds before Daryl actually finished the thought in his head. It confused the shit out of him how she could do that. Carol stopped her forward motion and gave him _the look_. The look that spelled out her knowledge of the past, present and future of all the shit he did, was and will get into.

And damn Carol, but bits of her still wobbled, even though she was holding still. Daryl felt a sweat break out as he resisted watching the wobbly bits. It was really hard.

Shit, he did not just think of 'hard'.

Looking up, he caught Carol with a tiny, knowing smirk on her face. He watched her let go of the golf club with one hand to press one finger against her lips in a plea for quiet.

Plea? It was more like an order.

Daryl licked his lips and gave her a barely-there nod. Carol doubled her grip and took another step.

The rattlesnake reared. And then it swiveled. And all at once, everything struck.

Carol, in her full Amazon glory, practically ran at the venomous reptile and swung at the triangular head with all her might.

Daryl snapped the towel out from under his arm, causing the contents to fly low and past the rattle, drawing the strike away from Carol.

T-Dog chose that moment to walk into the clearing, stuffing his own face with Carol's sweet feed biscuits.

"Holy shwit!" T-Dog screamed and dropped the bowl. "There's a snake!" The big man drew out the big buck knife Daryl had given him from Merle's stash and flung it with deadly accuracy.

When the dust cleared, the snake laid smashed, cut in half and it's fangs were tangled in Daryl's only pair of clean pants.

The three warriors heaved a sigh of relief and gave each other victorious grins. Daryl gingerly moved around the snake and pulled T-Dog's knife out and used it to cut the rattle off. Giving them a shake, Daryl presented them to Carol.

"Here's your trophy, Xena," Daryl drawled. "Now put some damn clothes on."

Carol took the rattle with an amused expression on her face. Daryl couldn't tell if she was pleased, or grossed out by his gesture.

"Carol, why are you naked?" Seemed that T-Dog had just realized Carol's state of undress. Both Carol and Daryl gave a snort of laughter.

"Get a grip, boys. It's just a little skin," Carol said as she turned and limped toward her clothes. "Just consider it payback for the eyeful you've given me the past few days."

"Way I hear it, you got more than an eyeful."

Daryl couldn't believe the words just coming out of his mouth. He never acted this way. Never. He resisted the urge slam his mouth shut and cover the maul with both hands. Behind him, T-Dog gave a wicked snicker.

Carol froze, and twisted back to consider Daryl's challenge. The redneck's bravado was already fading to nervous look. Decision quickly made, Carol spun and gimped her way right back to the two men. Seizing Daryl's hand, she forced it against her backside before he even had a chance to flinch.

"Now we're even." Carol winked at T-Dog and limped away.

"Man, you should see your face right now," T-Dog hee hawed.

"Turn around before I break your nose again," Daryl snarled, pushing the big man. T-Dog only laughed harder.

Daryl picked up his pants, disentangled the severed head and flung it far away. Then he picked up the rest of body and considered it. It was a big snake and had some heft to it. "Looks like we got dinner," he said, slinging the carcass over his shoulder. "Play your cards right and I might just tan the skin for you to make a sheath for that knife."

"We are not eating that thing," T-Dog complained. He picked up his overturned bowl and retrieved his fallen biscuits. "Thinks these are still good?"

"Five minute rule. They're fine." Daryl slapped the big man's arm.

"That's five seconds, not five minutes, you stupid hillbilly." T-Dog said, good-naturedly.

"Don't be such a princess. Gimme a biscuit then."

"Here, you can have the one with the ant stuck on it."

"Whatever."

* * *

Rick made a last round checking the packed cars. The past couple of days had been both horrible and amazingly good. Somehow, the entire group cinched closer together. Every hit of bad luck sparked new growth of loyalty and strength. And the best part? They were his.

Careful not to let amusement show on his face, Rick passed Beth crowded into a small place in the very back of the Suburban. Beth was just touching up the Sharpie color on her decorated arms. He didn't want to be anywhere near when Hershel found out.

Rounding the truck, he avoided looking at Glen and Maggie's embrace. The young couple weren't doing anything scandalous, but just sat, arms around each other, radiating contentment. Rick wasn't ready to face anyone else's successful relationship. At least, not until he could find a way to repair his own. Involuntarily, Rick felt his eyes seek out and find Lori. He didn't want to care, but his did. Desperately.

Under the shade of the big oak tree, Lori stood handing Daryl tacks while he stretched the rattlesnake skin out on an old board. Rick felt his felt an unexpected surge of jealousy when Lori paused to feel her stomach and urge Daryl to feel too. He was flabbergasted to watch the reclusive man gently place his hand on the bulge and light up at the kick.

"Good to see Daryl making a connection with others of the group. That man had had a hard road."

Rick let his jealousy fall off of him like water off a duck's back. There was time enough to make things right with Lori. Plenty of time.

Rick turned to Hershel and accepted a last mug of brewed yaupon holly tea. "Carol is making progress in that department," he quipped.

"Carol has him running for his life," Herhsel amended. "Did you hear what she did?" When Rick nodded, Hershel continued. "Daryl won't go anywhere near her now. It lifts the heart to watch the two of them in their courtship dance."

"So you think Carol will win in the end?" Rick asked with a smile, sipping at his tea.

"I do," Hershel agreed. "If I were ten years younger, I'd give Daryl a run for his money."

Rick had nothing to say to that. He found his eyes drawn back to Lori.

* * *

Daryl mounted his Triumph gingerly. He figured the rumble of the engine might make things smart for a while. But everything would get numb soon enough.

"Daryl!"

Daryl turned to see Carl run up brandishing something in his fist

"Time to hit the road, little man. You need to git on back." Daryl found himself looking around until he found where Carol had settled. She was sitting in the middle bench seat of the Suburban admiring Beth's arms. She'd be safe in there.

"Here you go. You won the bet."

Daryl returned his attention to Carl. The boy was grinning wildly through his mop of brown hair, slingshot sticking out of his back pocket. Looking back up, Daryl could see Carl handing him a Twinkie, still in the wrapper.

"That is probably the last Twinkie in the whole world." Daryl waved vaguely toward the Suburban. "You want to make an impression on Beth, you take that Twinkie and give it to her instead."

"Naw. I've decided that she's just a silly girl," Carl said, slapping the treat into Daryl's hand. "I want to be a bachelor like you."

"You may change your mind later," Daryl disagreed mildly, while he broke the cellophane. He broke the pastry and handed half back to Carl. Then the two bachelors dug in. The Twinkie was pretty stale, but the filling was still sweet.

Daryl heard Rick honk the horn of the truck, signaling it was time to go.

"You got a way to tie that hat down?" Daryl asked, while kick starting the motorcycle. The old engine roared to life.

Carl grinned and pulled the hat string tightly under his chin. "See? Snug and tight." Carl's mustache curled up with his pleasure.

"Well then, hop on. Ain't got all day," Daryl drawled. He revved his engine as Carl clamored on. "You fool around and fall off this bike, your old man will have my head," he threw over his shoulder. He felt Carl latch onto his belt in the back.

Daryl rolled the bike up beside Rick in the Suburban to make sure it was fine for Carl to ride with him. Rick only grinned and gave a thumbs-up.

"Daryl, wait!"

Daryl turned again to see Glen run up clutching something in his hand.

"Sorry, Short Round. The bike is full," Daryl smirked.

"Ha ha, very funny. As if." Glen huffed his annoyance. He handed Daryl a pair of dark Serengeti sunglasses. "I know this won't make up for getting you pincushioned, but maybe this will help. And thanks. For everything."

Daryl put on the dark sunglasses, completing the bad-ass biker look. Across the way, he could see Carol smiling at him. He quirked a smile back. Daryl turned thank Glen, but found he had already gone back to the Hyundai.

When Rick honked again, Daryl started out, taking the lead. Opening up the throttle for a quick surge, Daryl gave the boy a shot of speed. Behind him, Carl whooped with glee.

One by one, the vehicles caravanned out behind them. It was good to be on the road again.

**The end.**

**AN**:_ I hope you enjoyed the ending. I hope I've wrapped up all the little plot lines and didn't disappoint. If I forgot one, well, maybe if you let me know, it will hatch into an epilogue._

_This was a pleasure to write. It was even a bigger pleasure to see the number of readers and the plethora of countries involved. Who would have thought that a little tale of Gloom, Despair and Agony would reach so far. I can't thank everyone enough!_

_And as always, I'd be honored if you'd drop me a line and tell me what you thought._

_Thank you :)_

_Surplus Imagination_

_**p.s**. Honk if you want me to write about Dixon Demolition!_


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